


Like a Gentle Refrain

by Bookwormgal



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Broken Bones, Canon Compliant, Canon Death, Confessions, Consequences of Miguel's Adventure, Convenient Coma (TM), Conversing With The Unconscious, Dante is a Good Boy, Emotional Baggage, Ernesto is a jerk, F/M, Families of Choice, Family, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Forgiveness, Forgiveness takes time, Frustration, Gen, Guilt, Healing takes time, Hurt/Comfort, Héctor Deserves Nice Things, Imelda and Héctor Both Made Past Mistakes, Justice, Kissing, Lack of Communication, Love, Memories, Music, Musicians, Near Death Experiences, Nearly Being Forgotten Has Consequences, Nightmares, Or Would It Be Slow Rekindling?, Pain, People Really Need To Talk Things Out, Regrets, Research, Reunions, Slow Burn, Slow and Gradual Recovery, Spoilers, Stubborn Rivera Family Members, Supernatural Laws, Worldbuilding, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-13 20:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 137,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: "It means that you should prepare yourself for what might happen," said Dr. García gently. "Señora, this man is barely remembered. Whoever still holds memories of him and stopped the Final Death… it may not be enough. Perhaps he will eventually recover his strength and wake up. That would be the ideal outcome. But his condition is not promising, Señora."





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> So it turns out that this fandom has a firm hold on me and isn't letting go any time soon. And while this story has no connections to my previous "Coco" stories, I apparently haven't written enough for these skeletons. I don't even write a lot of romance usually and yet I keep wanting to poke at the complicated, guilt-and-regret-filled, decades-of-anger-and-feelings-of-betrayal, and absolutely-still-in-love-under-all-of-that relationship between Héctor and Imelda with a stick. 
> 
> Plus, I have a bit of an evil streak when it comes to my writing, so some nice angst and emotional distress for the characters is just too tempting to pass up. And can you honestly tell me that Héctor looked like he was in very good condition by the time Miguel went home? I am often the cruelest to the characters that I love the most.
> 
> Which brings us back to here. Once more, I do not own the characters from the movie, "Coco." Those (and my heart) belong to Disney.

"I'm sorry, Señora Rivera, but I don't know how much help I can be."

"Don't give me excuses. I've known you for too long and I know that you are a competent _médico_ ," she snapped. "Dr. García, you have a patient in front of you. There must be something you can do to help him. You have to at least _try_."

The skeleton didn't even flinch at her sharp tone. His home within the Land of the Dead was just a short distance down the street from the Rivera family. He knew them already. He'd even bought shoes from them on occasion. He'd witnessed the force of nature that was Imelda with a goal in mind. She could no longer shock or intimidate him.

And he had also treated hundreds of people, in life and in death. He'd faced furious and desperate and scared family members of patients before. She knew that even as the words came from her mouth. He was not a man to be intimidated nor was he a man to hide from the facts, no matter how kind or cruel they might be. He may try to soften the blow, but he would not hold back. His facial markings consisted of short and simple green lines along the cheekbones and little else, as practical and straightforward as the doctor himself.

He wasn't making excuses. He was speaking the truth. There might not be much he could do. Imelda just didn't want to admit it.

"Señora, I understand that this is a stressful situation, but you need to understand," said Dr. García. "This… This does not happen. I do not know of anyone who has come this close to the Final Death and have it… stop."

Imelda reluctantly glanced at the figure lying limply on her bed. Regardless of the fact that all of them were long dead, he was the one who looked absolutely lifeless. No matter how mixed her feelings might be towards the man, seeing him like this felt wrong.

As soon as they sent Miguel home with their blessing, it was like the boy took the last of Héctor's rapidly fading strength with him. He managed to barely stay awake long enough to see that Miguel made it, that the boy left before it was truly sunrise. He even managed a weak smile at her, as if he was about to say something. But then his exhaustion overwhelmed his stubbornness, the frequent spasms of golden light that gripped his body giving way to a steady glow. He fell the rest of the way into complete unconsciousness. And none of their voices nor pleas could reach him.

They'd known what it meant, that he would be dust in a matter of moments. That he was succumbing to the fate that befell all who were forgotten by the living. And yet… he stayed. Glowing as the Final Death tried to claim him, he somehow didn't disappear.

None of them understood what was happening and how he managed to remain, but Imelda knew one undeniable fact. They couldn't leave him. He died once, far from home and with no one. No one except possibly Ernesto, which was almost worse than being alone. At least when Imelda passed away, she was surrounded by her family. He was denied that the first time. If they could do nothing else for him, they would at least ensure he wasn't alone.

But they couldn't stay on the balcony backstage for long. Rosita and Victoria admitted to turning the camera on to expose Ernesto's crimes to his audience (though at least Héctor's position was off screen the entire time). Eventually, curious people would come looking and the idea of so many strangers crowding around while he remained so vulnerable sparked unpleasant emotions in her. With no better ideas, Oscar and Felipe helped lift the glowing figure onto Pepita's back and they took flight for home.

Part of her didn't expect Héctor to survive the journey. He looked like he was on the brink of collapsing into dust at any moment. Imelda kept an arm wrapped around him to keep the limp figure balanced on Pepita's crowded back, but she didn't dare put too much pressure into the hold. His bones felt so light and fragile beneath her hands. Like eggshells. Like they would _shatter_ if they didn't take care.

But they managed to land in the courtyard and even carry him inside without disaster. Not knowing where else to take him, Imelda directed her brothers to set him in her room. It was the closest place with a bed, so it was a practical decision rather than an emotional one. They settled the tall and limp figure on her comforter with as much care as they could. But Héctor showed no signs of improving or finally succumbing to the Final Death completely. He remained balanced on the very edge, glowing steadily and yet not dissolving into dust.

She could barely look at the glowing figure on her bed. It wasn't just the golden light that came from his bones or even the decades of hate in her warring with new knowledge. He was too silent and still. He was too fragile and brittle. And he felt… empty. Like he wasn't really there.

Imelda knew it didn't make sense, but he seemed more like a dead body than anyone else in the Land of the Dead. They were all dead. That was the point. He just seemed more so. Like all that was on her bed was an empty shell and the real him was already gone.

But that was impossible because they knew, _she_ knew… It was impossible because they disappeared with the Final Death. And Héctor was right in front of her. No matter what it felt like or how empty he seemed lying there, he wasn't gone. He couldn't be. Something was keeping him there, if only barely.

He hadn't left her. Not this time. Not yet.

Julio was the one who suggested that they bring in Dr. García to see if he could help. None of them had any better ideas. And he was probably their only hope of finding someone who might know what was happening or how they could help.

There wasn't much work for a _médico_ in the Land of the Dead. The illnesses and most injuries that plagued the living couldn't affect the dead. Minor broken bones, more common for those not as well remembered, were often set without help using splints sold for the purpose. More serious breaks, however, were often left to a _médico_ to properly set.

And sometimes, when they could afford it or someone else took pity, _médicos_ would do what they could do to relieve the symptoms from the approach of the Final Death. Nothing could stop it except the living remembering the poor soul, but they could still try to ease the suffering.

But Héctor _had_ stopped. His body still emitted the bright and unnerving light, but he hadn't disappeared. He was still with them. There must be something that they could do. Imelda refused to consider otherwise.

"I can give you my best guess on what is happening to him, Señora," Dr. García said, setting his leather medical bag on the bed next to his patient. "And I can give you my best prediction of his prognosis. I make no promises that I am right, though. But I will do what I can."

Resisting the urge to give in to her frustration with the entire situation, Imelda said evenly, "Fine. Why is he like this?"

"I don't know the exact details or circumstances, but it would seem that he was forgotten and started succumbing to the Final Death. And yet, when he was about to disappear completely, I believe that someone suddenly remembered," he described, reaching for Héctor's right arm. "It kept him from the Final Death, but he'd already come too close. Far closer than anyone else has come without being lost. People don't suddenly remember once they've forgotten enough that the dead reach this point, not without something very strong sparking their memory. But as I said, it appears he came too close. The Final Death takes away their strength. He barely has the energy to remain with us and I believe that's why he's in this state."

Coco. Imelda closed her eyes briefly. Somehow, Coco somehow managed to remember. She knew that her daughter's memory had been failing for years. She'd see it the last several _Día de Muertos_ when they visited. It hurt to see her daughter so quiet, so sad, and so lost in her fading mind. But somehow Coco remembered her papá at the last moment, anchoring him before he could slip away. And Imelda suspected that Miguel was responsible for that minor miracle.

"There are a few possible outcomes that I can see," continued Dr. García. "I do not know which is more likely. But I know that he's been fading for a long time. I know the signs when I see them. Even through the glow, I can make out the discoloration of his bones. That takes time to occur. A great deal of time with only the faintest and barely intact memories to sustain him."

With great care that _still_ managed to make Imelda nervous ( _he was so fragile and brittle_ ), Dr. García gently tugged on Héctor's arm. The limb didn't even resist before it surrendered to the light pressure, _popping_ free at the elbow.

Imelda tried not to cringe as the _médico_ slowly unwrapped the tape from around the bone near the joint. While any of the dead could fall apart under the right conditions and pull themselves back together again, it normally required far stronger pressure. He didn't even have to try. Héctor shouldn't separate so easily.

The Land of the Dead ran off memories. Memories kept them from fading. Memories held them together, keeping their bones connected when their flesh had long since vanished. But Héctor only had Coco's memories to keep him whole.

It wasn't enough. The fading memories of a woman who last saw him as a toddler wasn't enough. But they were all that he had. Those memories were the only things that had kept him from disappearing sooner.

Placing the old duct tape aside and pulling out a thin wooden splint from his medical bag, Dr. García said, "And this crack is further evidence that this has been an ongoing condition." Studying the damaged ulna with clinical detachment, he positioned the splint and started wrapping the gauze around the bone with practiced ease. "The wear around the edge of the break suggests this happened months ago at least. This is an old injury. It should have shown signs of healing by now. But those who are being forgotten heal slower. Or not at all."

Once he seemed satisfied with the newly-wrapped ulna, Dr. García carefully reattached the arm before moving around the bed to the other side. He shook his head briefly before working on the mess holding his leg together.

"I _understand_ that he's been on the brink of being forgotten for quite some time," Imelda said, trying not to think about _why_ that was so. "But what does that mean for him now?"

"It means that you should prepare yourself for what might happen," said Dr. García gently. "Señora, this man is barely remembered. Whoever still holds memories of him and stopped the Final Death… it may not be enough. Perhaps he will eventually recover his strength and wake up. That would be the ideal outcome. But his condition is not promising, Señora."

While the break to his ulna didn't look too bad, his tibia fell apart into two separate pieces once the _médico_ removed the duct tape. And yet he and Miguel walked all across the entire city last night. Imelda found herself wondering how he managed that. It was easier than considering _médico's_ words.

"And he's been running around on this?" muttered Dr. García, staring at the damage. "What was he thinking? Even _if_ he managed to set it straight the first time, trying to support his weight on this would have shifted it too much and just made it worse. He _had_ to be putting excessive stress and pressure on his fibula, maybe even popping it out of place with each step." He shook his head slightly before reaching back into his medical bag. "Señora Rivera, it is not just the glowing from the Final Death. Look closely at him. He is too still. He is not breathing. We may not die if we stop, but our bodies behave mostly based on memories of life. We eat, we drink, we sleep, and we breathe. When someone has weakened so much that their body no longer has the strength to breathe, that even that subconscious memory is not there, then there is very little left to him. In any other circumstance, he would be dust not long after he stopped breathing because you are only that weak when you have been forgotten."

Imelda turned away from the _médico_ as he carefully aligned the broken tibia pieces so that they actually fit together properly. Now that she knew to watch for it, she knew he was right. Héctor's ribcage never rose or fell. He wasn't breathing. He hadn't been since the golden light changed from the violent flashes that shook his body to the steadier glow that should have signaled the end. He was too still.

That was why he looked so empty. That was why he reminded her of a dead body. It was why everything about him seemed wrong now. She'd subconsciously noticed what was wrong while most of her mind refused to admit what was happening.

"Perhaps he will recover in time and wake up. I hope that he will," said Dr. García. Bone pieces aligned to his satisfaction and splints positioned to support the break correctly, he began to carefully wrap the entire tibia. "But he may also never regain consciousness. I told you that I've never heard of someone being forgotten so thoroughly only to be remembered at the last moment. I cannot give you any promises. He came very close to the Final Death and there may be consequences. He may never regain the strength it stole from him. He may never recover. You must be prepared for that possibility."

She glared at the _médico_ , but he didn't even look at her. His focus was solely on his patient. Once Héctor's leg was properly bound, he moved up to Héctor's ribcage. He tugged one of the suspenders aside, exposing yet another broken bone that he must have noticed earlier. A cracked rib, but with no duct tape to serve as a patch job like the other old injuries. A splint wouldn't be necessary for this one though. Dr. García pulled out a roll of medical tape to address the issue.

Héctor would be all right. If there was no hope for his recovery, the Dr. García wouldn't take this much time to set his bones so carefully. Imelda tried to focus on that thought stubbornly. She had no interest in considering any other possibility.

But she had to.

"So he may or may not wake up in time," she said evenly. "You have no idea which it'll be. So what are you telling me? That he may spend the rest of his existence lying on this bed?"

He glanced at her with something resembling pity, causing her temper to flare. She _hated_ pity. She'd received enough of that after it became clear to the rest of Santa Cecilia that her husband would never come home, long before she admitted it to herself. It took several battered skulls, courtesy of her newly-developed talent at crafting shoes, before they learned not to pity the single mother raising a daughter and running a business. Imelda never needed pity. She could handle everything without their pity.

"There is another possibility, Señora," said Dr. García gently. "He was forgotten briefly. Even now, he is barely remembered. Whatever managed to spark that lost memory at the last minute may not be a permanent solution. They may forget again. Today, tomorrow, or even within a few seconds of now. There is no way to tell. Especially without knowing who remembers him or what caused them to remember this time."

Imelda started to argue, but the words didn't come. He was right. Maybe Miguel managed to remind Coco somehow, but how long would it last? Would Coco even be able to share those memories? Miguel would try. Imelda knew he would do what he could to save Héctor, but with no _foto_ and Coco's fading mind… She might not be able to tell him. She might not even be able to hold those memories until nightfall. Héctor's existence depended on that frail memory from childhood. There was no one else to remember.

She pushed away the prickling emotion that thought caused. Imelda didn't have time for that. She needed to focus on more immediate matters.

"Is there anything that can be done? Or are you telling me that all we can do is wait and see if he wakes up or if he turns to—" Imelda said, breaking off suddenly when she heard her voice waver slightly.

Straightening up and reaching for his bag, Dr. García said, "There is not much we can do to help him recover the strength that approaching the Final Death stole from him. Nor can we ensure that the living remembers him. The most we can do is keep him as comfortable as possible."

He reached into the bag and pulled out a green glass bottle. The handwritten label and the thick cork jammed in reminded her of receiving similar containers when Coco grew sick as a child, so different from the more modern orange tubes of pills that she'd glimpsed the older members of her living family possessing. Dr. García handed the bottle over to her. It felt heavy, both of her hands wrapping around the smooth surface as liquid sloshed around inside.

"I've been called a few times when someone is being forgotten, when the Final Death is approaching them and remaining loved ones are desperate to help somehow," he continued. "There is nothing I can do to prevent it, but there is no reason why they should be wracked with pain until exhaustion leaves them numb. I don't know if he feels anything right now, but I will leave you with this." He gestured at the bottle. "The directions are on the label. Whether he begins to recover or if he does not, watch him for signs of distress. The medicine will ensure that he doesn't suffer. It will take care of any pain."

Imelda nodded, staring at the bottle a moment longer before setting it on the table. It wasn't much, but at least it was better than nothing. Especially since the idea of Héctor in pain, of him suffering just like when his bones flared up with light and sent him collapsing in front of her last night, caused Imelda to feel a tight lump where her throat once existed.

" _Gracias_ , Dr. García," said Imelda, remembering her manners despite everything. "I appreciate what you've done."

"I wish that I could do more for… I'm sorry, Señora, but I don't believe that your son-in-law told me who the patient is when he fetched me. A friend of the family?"

She hesitated a moment, part of her uncertain how to answer. It was one thing to call him "the love of her life" in a moment of anger as she struck that lying _asesino_. She spent ninety-six years denying any relationship to him, even avoiding his name. But now she knew what happened, what _Ernesto_ did. She was still struggling with those realizations. She'd barely had time to think during the events of last night and she needed deal to with so much new information. Her heart and mind were too mixed up to know how to respond to any of it. She wasn't certain how she felt about the man anymore.

But they were in this situation because of how much she denied even the memory of him in life. No more. If nothing else, she could be honest about this much.

"His name is Héctor," said Imelda slowly. She looked at the glowing figure on her bed, still glowing brightly with that unnatural light and lying as limp as a broken doll. "And once… he was my husband."

Dr. García gave her a questioning look, but was wise enough not to comment. Those who knew the Rivera family knew the story of how the business started, of how her musician husband left and never returned. A story that explained why music was banished from their home and lives, something that people noticed in life and death. A story that she now knew to be incomplete.

"I don't know if any of what I said will happen. I have only given you my best guesses," he said finally. "Let me know if there are any changes, for good or ill. His condition may shift in unforeseen directions. Remember that my home is just down the street. I will be happy to call upon this household again if my skills are necessary, Señora Rivera."

"I will keep that in mind. And once again, _gracias_."

The _médico_ slipped out of the room. A moment later, the rest of the household crowded their way through the doorway. It was almost laughable to see them all try to fit in her room without getting too close to the bed.

While they'd expanded and added on to both their shop in front and their home at the back half of the property as their family grew, Imelda's room was part of the original building. Her room felt cozy and she kept everything tidy. There was her bed, her wardrobe, a small side table with a lamp, her vanity, and a chair. A few treasured belongings and offerings from the living were displayed on the dresser, as were a couple photographs. Her most frivolous feature was an elegant glass door framed by thick purple drapes she could use to block out the light. It led out to the large balcony, one normally used by Pepita to sunbath on. There was enough space in the room for what she might need, but it wasn't a particularly large bedroom. It certainly wasn't built with the idea that seven people might want to fit inside all at once.

But they managed to squeeze in anyway, keeping close to the doorway. Their eyes kept being drawn towards the still figure and the unnatural light that tried to claim him. He didn't seem to fit the room. He wasn't neat and tidy like everything else. Her thick and heavily-embroidered comforter only seemed to make his ragged clothes and battered bones all the more noticeable. No one knew how to react to his presence. Julio eventually ended up shuffled to the front of the small group, holding his hat in his hands.

"What did he say, Mamá Imelda?" he asked, as if they _weren't_ all hiding out there and eavesdropping the entire time.

Smoothing out her dress briefly took a moment. Giving each of them a steady look took a little longer. She wasn't delaying this conversation though. Imelda was not someone who hesitated over difficult topics. She merely needed to collect her thoughts.

"He had no definite answers," said Imelda carefully. "There is not much known about what might happen to someone who came so close to the Final Death. Dr. García said that he may wake up in time. Or he may not."

"I'm sorry, Imelda," Oscar said quietly as his twin gave her a sympathetic look.

She pretended not to hear her brother, a task easier with how low he kept his voice. Acknowledging his words would open up the entire emotional mess that she was still trying to ignore. Oscar and Felipe were the only other people in the room who knew Héctor before last night. They remembered running around as boys, teasing their older sister about "that musician" who kept following her with a charming smile and an energetic song. And they remembered her heartache, tears, and fury when he disappeared and she finally realized he wasn't coming home like he promised. If anyone had an accurate prediction on what her current feelings towards Héctor might be, something that not even Imelda herself could claim at that moment, it would be her brothers.

"What are we going to do then?" asked Victoria. "If Dr. García has no advice, what do you think we should do now?"

"Close the shop for the day. Try to get some sleep if you can. It's been a long night for everyone," she said firmly. "There's not much else we can do for the moment."

Her family shifted awkwardly, exchanging looks. Imelda stared them down, making certain that they understood that there would be no debating her decision. And perhaps if she put enough force into her gaze, none of them would ask the obvious question.

"But Mamá Imelda," said Rosita cautiously, "if he's on your bed, where are you going to sleep?"

Well, there went _that_ small hope. Imelda turned towards her vanity and pulled out the chair. She moved it over to the bedside. She then smoothed out her dress and took a seat.

"I'm not quite tired yet," she said firmly. "I think I will sit up for a little longer."

Felipe opened his mouth, but silenced himself when her stern expression turned to a full-on glare. Imelda continued to stare sharply until her family reluctantly filed their way out of her room. Then she listened to their footsteps as they finally obeyed her instructions and headed off to get the rest that they deserved.

Imelda's shoulders dropped as she slumped further into her chair. She didn't like lying to her family, but she _was_ tired. _Bone_ tired. In more ways than one. But she also knew that wouldn't be able to sleep right now. Her mind was too turbulent to settle down. There was just too much.

And she couldn't keep herself distracted any longer. Sitting silently in her room, there was nothing left to occupy the time except the glowing figure lying lifeless on her bed and the swirling thoughts that his presence caused.

* * *

He'd been falling. Or floating. Or something.

He couldn't tell. There was no up or down. No directions. No light or dark. No sounds.

He had no weight. No body. And no memories or real thoughts.

No name.

Did he actually exist? Shapeless, weightless, no senses, no voice, no memories, and nameless. Did he exist? Was any of this real?

Did it matter?

…No. It didn't. Not anymore.

It wasn't always like this. Even without memories or an identity, he somehow knew it wasn't like this before. There had been cold, pain, exhaustion, regret, and sadness. Now there was nothing. Whatever happened Before was very, very, very far away. And it kept getting further away so quickly.

At least, at first.

Something had reached out towards him, latching onto the shapeless and nameless thing. He didn't know if that was good or bad. He didn't want that pain again; not existing seemed easier. He should have pulled out of the weak hold, but that would require actual thought. And there was a familiarity to it.

He couldn't see or hear whatever tried to keep him existing. He couldn't remember. But whatever caught hold of him was something familiar. He didn't know how long he focused on the weak grip anchoring him in place. It was the only piece of _realness_ within the nothing. And he wanted this familiar connection. There were no understandable words, but the feeling of _I want you, I miss you, I love you, please come home_ wove through it like a gentle refrain in a song that he knew by heart.

A song. Music. There was something about a lullaby…

And memories… Memories holding him…

Other tentative grips, new ones that weren't as familiar to him, eventually reached out to join the first. Grasping him. Remembering him.

And they started pulling him back. Back towards existence. Slowly. It was so far away though. And they were trying to take him back where there was the pain and weakness from Before.

But there had been good things before that. Before the nothing and before the pain, there had once been love and comfort. And the first gentle grip, the familiar one that caused part of him to cry out _míja_ even without a voice or understanding of the word's meaning… He needed to return to whoever or whatever it was. He had to go back, no matter what.

So he let them anchor his existence and slowly pull him back.

But it was so far away… Could they really pull him back that far?

* * *

They listened to Mamá Coco speak for as long as possible, her eyes and words as clear and bright as Miguel could ever remember. She knew them. And she remembered her papá, recounting her childhood memories to her enraptured audience. She told her family about how Héctor would scoop up his daughter and pepper her face with kisses, how he would tease Mamá Imelda out of a foul mood with a quick " _did you at least leave the idiota his head this time, mi amada?_ " before strumming her favorite song to coax out a smile, how he would show his little girl that his guitar shared his smile (something that Miguel quickly confirmed, pointing at the painted gold on the tooth of the guitar in his hands), and how Héctor wrote a song just for her. Mamá Coco smiled with each precious memory and Abuelita smiled as her mother looked happier than she could imagine.

When the stories began to slow, Miguel decided to take a chance. A quick look through the old letters and he spotted a couple meaningful lines, confirming his suspicions that Ernesto de la Cruz really stole _all of them_. He plucked out the opening notes of "Un Poco Loco" and Mamá Coco started laughing so hard that tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks. Rosa and Abel didn't seem to know how to react to that, but Abuelita was literally crying with happiness as Papá Franco placed a hand on her shoulder. When she calmed down enough to speak again, Mamá Coco explained how she used to love yelling out the nonsense answers at the beginning of the song, which always made her parents chuckle. And she explained that while "Remember Me" was made for Mamá Coco, Héctor told her that he wrote "Un Poco Loco" for Mamá Imelda.

She talked about how only her mamá and papá never mixed up Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, even when the two of them tried to trick people. She talked about how Héctor would brag about having the two most beautiful girls and the most talented dancers in the entire town, Coco bouncing excitedly to the music as she tried to mimic her mamá's graceful movements. She talked about how people in the town would ask him to play at weddings, quinceañeras, and so on and he always seemed happy to make people smile with his music. And she mentioned how in the picture that Miguel was carefully taping back together as she spoke, her papá wanted to look extra nice for the special occasion since taking photographs was not a common event and that she remembered how Héctor charmed and coaxed her "Tío Ernesto" into letting him borrow his white charro outfit for it.

The last story made Miguel's stomach churn, but he listened. He memorized every word she spoke with the same dedication that he used to learn the fingerings on his cobbled-together guitar. They had to remember these stories. Stories of Héctor from someone who knew him in life. They had to remember him. They all did. But while the rest of the family would listen to Mamá Coco because they loved her and wanted to hear her talking and recognizing them, Miguel understood the importance of what was happening.

The more people remembered Héctor, the harder it would be to forget him. And then Miguel would get to keep his promise. Papá Héctor would get to see his daughter again.

But after a while, Mamá Coco trailed off with a tired expression. She kept smiling and certainly seemed more aware than normal, but it had also been a crazy morning. At her age, this much excitement was exhausting. Abuelita quietly ushered the rest of the family out of the room to let Mamá Coco rest.

And as they shuffled out of the room, quietly talking among themselves about how amazing the transformation to Mamá Coco was, reality set in once again. Unfortunately, reality included the fact that Miguel ran away the night before and scared his family to death. Now that the initial shock had passed, the worry and anger over his disappearance came out in full force. As did the questions.

_What was he thinking? Did he have any idea what he put them through? Was he hurt? Where was his red jacket? They looked everywhere for him; where was he all night? Where did he find that guitar? How did he know that Mamá Coco would recognize that song?_

Most of the questions his mamá and papá asked him weren't ones that he could easily answer. His parents wouldn't believe him if he just told them that he ended up stealing the guitar from Ernesto de la Cruz's crypt, found himself in the Land of the Dead, ran around trying to find his great-great-grandfather only to learn that _Héctor_ was actually his mysterious relative, and almost ended up trapped there and Héctor was nearly forgotten. He loved them and knew they would listen to his explanation, but they wouldn't believe him. They would think he dreamt it. It would sound like a fantasy.

But they eventually dropped that entire line of questioning. Maybe they saw how tired he was after his long night or they remembered how he broke down in tears when Miguel thought Mamá Coco wouldn't remember. Regardless, Papá eventually fell silent and just pulled him into another hug. The boy practically melted into the embrace. And once the hug ended and his mamá pressed a kiss to the top of his head, they sent him to his room to get some sleep.

He knew he was grounded. There was no way he was getting out of trouble completely. They just hadn't made it official yet. There would be plenty of time for that later.

Miguel wanted to sleep. He'd been up the entire night, running all over the Land of the Dead and getting hit with all those overwhelming discoveries. His emotional state ended up as a chaotic mess after everything. Sleep would help. But he still needed to do one last thing before he could rest easy.

He waited, sitting on the edge of his bed. He fought to keep his eyes open and tried to ignore how heavy his body felt. He quietly counted the minutes until he believed that enough time had passed. Then, being careful not to let the door or the floor creak, Miguel slipped back out of his room.

A lifetime of loving music in a household that didn't allow it meant that Miguel knew how to sneak around the place without being noticed. Especially with everyone worn out by a night of worrying and searching through the streets of Santa Cecilia for their missing boy. They were almost as worn out as Miguel. It left their home quiet and his stealthy journey back to Mamá Coco's room undetected.

He crept inside, thankful to see that Abuelita was gone. Even better, Mamá Coco was still awake and seemed clear-headed. She blinked in surprise at his return, but seemed pleased to see him.

"What is it, _míjo_?" she asked.

Walking over and sitting on the bed next to her, Miguel said, "Mamá Coco, I want to tell you about what happened last night. After all, I tell you _everything_ and you're probably the only person who'll believe me. And I think you deserve to know and he would want you to know the truth."

"Who would?" she asked.

He smiled at her and said, "It's a long story. But it all started yesterday when Dante knocked over the _foto_ on the _ofrenda_ and the frame broke. And I saw the rest of the picture. I saw the guitar and I recognized it."

"Papá's guitar," she said.

"Right," said Miguel with a nod. "But I didn't know much about your papá. I didn't know what he looked like or even his name. But the guitar was something that I'd seen before. I knew it. You see, there was a famous musician from Santa Cecilia by the name of Ernesto de la Cruz…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter to start with, but I figured that you'd appreciate it. And no, this won't be one huge and epic adventure. I just want to write some more for this fandom and occasionally explore things with these wonderful characters.
> 
> I had a lot of trouble coming up with a title for this story. I went over a lot of different options, but none of them seemed to feel right. That's usually not a problem for me. Finally, without much warning, I figured it out.
> 
> In music, a "refrain" is a section that repeats the same lyrics and melody throughout the song. It is usually a single line that is always sung to the same tune. A refrain is described as "a repeated line or musical phrase that ties a song together... A refrain is only a phrase, or a word, while a chorus contains many more words." A good example of a refrain is the "fa la la la la" part of "Deck the Halls."
> 
> …Another example would be "remember me" from a certain lullaby…


	2. Estinto

"This doesn't change anything," said Imelda, breaking the silence after a while. "It doesn't change what happened, what your decision put us through for decades. What it did to Coco. You broke your daughter's heart by choosing to chase music with that man. Nothing that happened last night can undo all those years. It still happened. This changes _nothing_."

Unsurprisingly, her sharp and bitter words fell on deaf ears. Héctor remained just as still and lifeless as before, glowing with a golden light that promised to steal him away at any moment. She could scarcely believe that he was actually in the middle of it. He still felt like an empty shell.

But she could pretend that he could hear her. That she could tell him exactly how much his choice hurt everyone. How much it hurt _her_.

Not that she let that slow her down. She couldn't take the time to cry over her broken heart when she admitted that Héctor would never come home. Not when Imelda had a daughter to feed and clothe and even the thin trickle of money with his letters dried up. Not when so many people were looking at their little family with so much pity, as if they were some broken thing. Not when anger and stubborn focus on her goals was easier to handle than grief.

She spent half a century working to build a business and protecting her family from being torn apart by music and the ambition it caused that tempted people away. Imelda spent the rest of her life without that man. She didn't need some musician who abandoned them. And she didn't need the songs that she once loved that now tore at her heart. She told herself that every morning when she woke up alone until the day she died.

And when she died and finally saw him again, a lifetime of pain and feelings of betrayal came out as a storm of fury and hatred. All those years of struggling to make enough money in the early days to keep Coco fed, of staying up all night to finish an order on time, and working until her hands shook and her fingers ached… She unleashed it all at once at the confused skeleton, verballing tearing him apart before snarling that she never wanted to see him again. If he couldn't stand with them in life, then he did not have the right to even come near her family in death. It took a few more similar encounters before Héctor seemed to realize that she wouldn't allow him to speak a word and that she would never forgive him.

She did vaguely notice even then that he looked younger than she expected. Age was a little trickier to figure out on a skeleton, but she could tell that he died long before she did. But Imelda shrugged it off. She'd already imagined various scenarios over the years of what he was probably doing after Héctor abandoned them. It didn't take much to adjust those theories. Maybe a drunken night after a performance with Ernesto went wrong. Alcohol poisoning or an accident. Or on those nights when she felt particularly upset and indulged in some self-pity, Imelda wondered if he died in the bed of some pretty young _señorita_ that he'd charmed with his music…

But that wasn't true, was it?

Imelda found herself reaching over and taking his hand in hers. It didn't feel right though. Even though the dead were walking skeletons, there was always a warmth to them. A memory of life, in a way, that stayed with them even once their hearts stopped and the skin disappeared. But Héctor didn't feel like that right now. It felt like she was just holding onto dry old bones, empty and lifeless.

He left her. No matter what else happened, he left his family. She didn't know if she could ever forgive him for leaving them, no matter his reasons for going. Because that would mean forgiving him for a lifetime alone when they'd promised to be together forever as husband and wife.

But Miguel said that he died trying to come home. That Ernesto murdered him. And then the man admitted to the crime, trying to murder Miguel to keep that secret. Imelda was still trying to adjust to that new knowledge.

Old and familiar anger flared up. He tried to come home eventually, but how long did that take? How many years did Héctor spend touring with Ernesto until he grew bored? He must have enjoyed himself for a while since he couldn't even bother to continue with those letters after the first few months…

Realization hit her abruptly, cold shock washing over her like a wave and dousing that ancient anger. The letters stopped so suddenly. They didn't grow more infrequent or even grow shorter in length first. They simply ended.

It was only a few months after he left, not even close to the amount of time he mentioned Ernesto wanting to tour. It had hurt that he forgot them so quickly, that he stopped caring about his family after such a short period of time. That his promises meant so little.

She should have questioned it, but the pity and whispers from the people in town helped steer her thoughts to the most reasonable conclusion. They'd decided what must have happened long before Imelda gave up hope of his return. There was only one logical explanation for why a young musician far from home would stop sending word to his family. Why worry about the burden of a family when he could chase fame without them?

She didn't wonder or question it too much because it would seem like she was inventing fantasies or making excuses for a man who didn't deserve it. It would mean that she was too weak and foolish to accept the plain reality in front of her, that she'd been abandoned by a no-good musician who chose to seek out better fortunes than what he could have staying in their town with a wife and child. It was what the gossip had long since established and the seeds of doubt were too entrenched to dig up. And Imelda didn't have the time to consider the matter too much; she still had a child to raise.

But that wasn't what happened back then, was it? The letters stopped completely, like a sharp knife cutting off all communication. The letters didn't just stop without warning for no reason, did they? He didn't stop writing only to continue touring a few more years.

That's when it happened, wasn't it? Only a few months after they left, Héctor tried to come home. He tried to come home and Ernesto killed him for that.

Héctor didn't forget them. He didn't stop writing or sending money or caring about them. He didn't even want to stay for the entire tour. He tried to come home sooner. And Ernesto de la Cruz… He…

She felt something beginning to give way, startling Imelda into loosening her grip. She hadn't realized that she'd started squeezing, that her hand had tightened around his in response to her unsettled thoughts. Imelda quickly muttered soft apologies, worried for a moment that she'd managed to crack his metacarpals accidentally. Everything about him seemed so fragile and brittle even compared to his state when she fished him and Miguel out of the cenote, like he was ready to shatter apart or crumble to dust at the slightest mistake on her part. But a brief inspection of the bones assured her that she'd stopped in time to keep from actually hurting him.

She'd hurt him enough already.

Imelda rubbed her thumb across his knuckles, making certain to be gentle this time. Miguel was right. Whether she could forgive Héctor or not, he didn't deserve to be forgotten. And yet she did everything in her power to erase him from all memory. No _foto_ on the _ofrenda_ , forbidding anyone from mentioning his name, no talking about the man… She wanted to forget him and the way his abandonment hurt their family, to make Coco forget him so they could all heal and move on.

But it didn't help. Not really. Trying to forget and ignoring Héctor didn't stop the hurt; it only buried it for a while. It didn't seem to make Coco any happier; she stubbornly clung to his memory despite Imelda's efforts. It didn't help Miguel; it only taught him to hide, lie, and sneak around because he didn't think his family would support him. Because following her decrees blindly and without question even after Imelda's death meant that their family _wouldn't_ support his love of music and would smother it.

Trying to forget him didn't do the family any good in the long run. And it nearly cost Héctor his very existence.

"You should have never left. You left your family," she said, but with no bite in her words. "You can't give me back all those years. You can't undo all those years without you. All those years working hard to keep a roof over our daughter's head and food on the table. All those years forcing people to take me serious even though I was a woman without a husband. All those years where I couldn't even think about singing without… without remembering you. And it _hurt_ to remember."

She rubbed across his knuckles gently, silently noting the various nicks and scratches that ran across his glowing bones. Everything about him spoke of a rough afterlife. Even his clothes were practically unraveling. Dr. García was right. He'd been fading for a long time before this.

She almost lost him. She'd tried to deny and ignore that fact all morning with the same determination that she'd used to ignore the man for so long. But it was hard to pretend when his bones still shone brightly and he looked completely lifeless.

He died ninety-six years ago, alone in some strange town. Imelda didn't know how Ernesto murdered him, but Héctor died without his family. He probably didn't even have anyone waiting for him in the Land of the Dead; she'd known he was orphaned at a young age, so no one would have remembered his parents. Héctor died alone and she never realized what happened.

She lost him to death while believing she'd lost him to music and the hunt for fame. And this morning, just as she let him back in her presence once more, the Final Death nearly stole him away again.

It could still happen. The light hadn't faded. Not even slightly. Héctor remained on the very edge. His very existence was balanced on that razor-thin line, ready to tip over at any moment without any warning. And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

"You made a mistake," she said. "And that mistake cost both of us so much, _idiota_. But I made mistakes as well." Imelda squeezed his hand softly before relaxing her grip once more. "Mistakes that brought us here. Mistakes that caused _this_ to happen to you. You've apologized to me."

She trailed off briefly, unable to smother out the memory of the way he'd claimed all responsibility for what happened even as he tried to recover from the brief shimmer of gold across his bones that left him on his knees. No excuses or even a request for forgiveness. Only an honest apology. He didn't even seem to blame her for the way the unnatural light tried to overtake him.

He should have blamed her at least little. He should have hated her. He was dying because Imelda tried to erase all memory of him. And yet he merely said that it was his fault.

"It isn't easy to admit this, but I was wrong to try and have you forgotten. I'm sorry, Héctor."

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a shaking breath. He couldn't hear her. She knew that. Héctor was too far gone, too empty and still. He was too close to the Final Death.

"You better come back, _idiota_. You better come back to us," she said. "If you never hear my apology…" Imelda opened her eyes. "You have to wake up. You are not allowed to leave me a second time. I won't let you."

She quietly begged Coco to remember her father. And for Miguel to find a way to learn those stories so he could also remember Héctor. If Coco didn't find a way to pass down those memories to a family who wanted nothing to do with the man, then it was only a matter of time. Unless someone else eventually remembered Héctor, then he would soon be forgotten.

With her free hand, Imelda reached over to cup his face briefly. As bright as the golden-orange light might be, there were certain points that glowed even brighter. Around every joint on his body and especially his facial markings, the light shone with a nearly-blinding intensity. She couldn't even tell what colors those along his cheekbone were meant to be. And she'd never allowed herself the chance to look at his face in death to memorize the colors before.

And she'd come so close to never having the chance. He could have disappeared that morning. He could still crumble into dust right now. She did this to him. This was her fault.

How could she have been so blind? What in their time together made her believe even for a moment that Héctor would abandon his family, let alone believe that for ninety-six years? That was part of the reason it hurt so much; no matter the whispers and gossip about traveling musicians might suggest, leaving them and never coming back just didn't seem like him. She should have realized there was something wrong. She should have trusted him more. Why didn't she figure out that something must have happened to him?

He was her husband. She knew him better than that. She loved Héctor. She should have had more faith in him.

But instead, she let the whispers of the neighbors poison her thoughts enough that Imelda assumed the worst. What kind of love was that?

Perhaps she was being too hard on herself. Hindsight could cast some harsh shadows on the past. It was easy to berate herself for those choice, but she was younger then and had no way to learn the truth. How would she have been able to uncover what really happened to Héctor? Why would anyone suspect that Ernesto murdered his best friend, the man that he grew up with and treated like a brother? She shouldn't blame herself for not knowing enough or figuring it out when she was alive.

But it was hard to believe that when she saw Héctor trapped on the brink of the Final Death and she knew that she brought him to this fate. It was hard not to blame herself for the silent and still figure on her bed, his bones glowing, brittle, and about to crumble to dust at any moment.

"I never meant to do this to you," Imelda said quietly, her thumb tracing the markings along his cheekbone. "Oh, Héctor… What have I put you though?"

Her increasingly-uncomfortable reflections came to an abrupt halt at an unexpected sound. Specifically, a knock at the front door.

* * *

Fighting back a yawn, Miguel concluded, "And then they touched the _cempazúchitl_ petal to my chest and I appeared back on the floor of the crypt. That's when I grabbed the guitar and ran back home. You know what happened next."

Mamá Coco's wrinkled face twisted into a thoughtful expression before giving a slow nod. Her eyes pressed closed. She was clearly taking the story quite seriously.

There were parts that Miguel didn't want to tell her. Like when he accused Héctor of being selfish. Or when he yelled at Dante. He wasn't proud of those moments. But he told her.

And there were parts that he tried to downplay as much as possible. The biggest thing that Miguel tried to minimize as much as possible was Héctor's condition. He mentioned Héctor being tired, but he didn't talk about the way the golden light flashed and shimmered around his joints and facial markings and his body spasmed violently with each episode. He didn't talk about how weak Héctor was at the end, unable to even raise his head and his hand shaking enough that Mamá Imelda needed to help him hold the petal. Miguel tried to avoid those details, but he suspected that he still said enough for her to figure out the seriousness of the situation.

"I didn't mean to forget him," she said quietly. "I don't mean to forget anything. It just keeps slipping away…"

"But you remember right now," said Miguel. "And you told the rest of us, so we can help remember for you. Papá Héctor is safe now. And he loves you so much and can't wait to see you again. Next year, we'll put the _foto_ on the _ofrenda_ so he can visit. Even Abuelita will agree to it now. You saw her. She'll agree to anything you want."

He knew Héctor would be all right. Miguel silently reassured himself of that. It didn't matter how weak and tired he seemed at the end. Mamá Coco remembered and now the rest of the family did too. Héctor wouldn't be forgotten. He wouldn't disappear. Everything would be all right.

"I don't want to forget again, _míjo_ ," she continued.

She opened her eyes and Miguel swore he saw a little bit of Héctor in her gaze… and a _lot_ of Imelda. Specifically, he saw her fiery temper flickering in Mamá Coco's eyes.

"And I _don't_ want Ernesto to get away with what he did. There must be something we can do."

"People need to know the truth. I just don't know how to tell them," said Miguel, rubbing at his eyes blearily. "How can we get people to listen? No one wants to think Ernesto de la Cruz could be a fraud. Or a murderer."

She reached over and cupped his face gently. Miguel smiled at her. The anger at Ernesto might be Mamá Imelda's influence, but the gesture was identical to how Héctor did the same thing not too long ago. It was amazing how many mannerisms she shared with her parents now that she could remember a little and now that he knew what to look for.

"We'll figure something out," assured Mamá Coco. "Even if I forget, I'll help you if I can."

"And if you forget, I'll play your song and remind you," he said.

When he yawned, Mamá Coco gave him a knowing look and said, "Get some sleep, _míjo_. It isn't good for you to stay up so long."

" _Sí_ , Mamá Coco." He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on her hair. "And thanks."

* * *

Imelda froze, her mind briefly going blank. There was someone at the front door. Not at their shop, but the door to their home. She couldn't ignore it.

Her bedroom was the closest, though Oscar and Felipe shared a room down the hall (they still preferred that to having separate rooms). Everyone else had rooms the next floor up, architecture in the Land of the Dead leaning towards a more vertical form of expansion. They wouldn't hear the knocking. Especially if they followed her advice to get some sleep. She was the only one who would answer the door.

But Imelda couldn't prevent the sharp spike of fear that jolted through her at the idea of leaving the room, even for a moment. She couldn't do that. What if she stepped away for just a moment and that was when it happened? What if he was gone by the time she came back? It could happen at any moment. There would be no warning, not when Héctor was so close.

She didn't want to leave him alone because of that foolish paranoid fear that he would disappear the moment Imelda left his side. But she knew that it wouldn't change anything. If he finally succumbed to the Final Death, there would be nothing she could do to stop it. And yet she felt like the only thing holding him in existence was the fact she was with him.

As long as she could see him, he wasn't gone. But if she couldn't see him, she wouldn't know…

Another firm and professional knock reminded Imelda that she couldn't ignore the rest of the world. So she reluctantly set his hand carefully on his motionless chest and slowly stood up from her chair. Backing away from the bed was even more difficult. Imelda had to force her feet to move.

It would only be for a moment. Just long enough to chase off whoever thought right now was an appropriate time to visit. He would be fine, Imelda silently assured herself. Héctor managed to hang on so far, even when Imelda knelt down next to him backstage and was completely certain he would be gone before the sun broke over the horizon. He could hold on a moment more.

She pushed back any doubts about stepping out of the room briefly, refusing to acknowledge them. Just like she ignored the way she felt something ache and twist tightly in her empty ribcage.

Knowing it was pointless to even try, Imelda still said, "Hold on, Héctor. I'll be back. Just hold on."

Glancing at the lifeless skeleton one last time, she hurried out the door and down the stairs. The staircase brought her to the tastefully-decorated parlor. There was a third knock before Imelda crossed the room and finally answered the door.

Imelda almost snapped at them immediately to leave. She didn't have time to deal with this. But that instinctive reaction sputtered to a halt as she properly took in her visitor. The young woman with a friendly face and the Marigold Grand Central Station uniform made her pause. She couldn't figure out why a Departures agent would be on their doorstep.

"Can… I help you?" asked Imelda carefully.

"Señora Imelda Rivera?" she asked.

" _Sí_."

The agent shifted slightly, drawing Imelda's attention briefly to the bundle of yellow and blue fabric in her arms. It looked surprisingly similar to the dresses they'd used to sneak into the Sunrise Spectacular.

"Sorry to disturb you like this, Señora. I know you and your family had a busy night. I managed to catch the important part of the broadcast for the Sunrise Spectacular after my shift and my quick visit to see my family." She ducked her head in brief embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I'm not handling this very well. Let me start over. My name is Helena López and I work at Marigold Grand Central Station. Mostly in Arrivals during the year, but I deal with Departures during _Día de Muertos_."

"Are you here about Miguel?" asked Imelda. It was the only thing that made sense for her to be there. "He made it home, if that's what you need to know."

The agent shook her head quickly and said, "No, that's not it. Though I'm glad to hear that. The broadcast ended not long after Ernesto de la Cruz encountered that bell. So I knew the boy survived the fall, but not much of what happened afterwards. But I'm here for another reason." She raised the bundle of fabric in her arms briefly. "I am returning some property that we confiscated last night."

Then she abruptly shook her head again, her bright smile briefly vanishing. Helena stared at the increasingly-confused Imelda.

"Actually, that is more of an excuse than anything. I felt I needed a reason to show up. I check in Shantytown first, but no one had seen him since last night. And since I'm a little too curious for my own good and did some investigating a couple decades ago, I recognized who you were on stage and realized there was one more place to check."

"I… I don't understand," said Imelda.

Helena smiled nervously and said, "I was looking for Héctor. After how he seemed last night when I saw him and what everyone heard the boy and de la Cruz say on the broadcast, I was concerned about him."

Imelda blinked in surprise, unable to think for a moment. Then her words began to sink in properly.

"Please come in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Mamá Coco and the fact that they could coax back her memory with a song, I did find one possible theory. Depressive pseudodementia is a syndrome seen in older people in which they exhibit symptoms consistent with dementia but the cause is actually depression. Older people with predominantly cognitive symptoms such as loss of memory, and vagueness, as well as prominent slowing of movement and reduced or slowed speech, were sometimes misdiagnosed as having dementia when further investigation showed they were suffering from a major depressive episode. And unlike actual dementia, depressive pseudodementia can be reversed.
> 
> It doesn't take much imagination to extrapolate that an old woman who spent a lifetime hoping for her father's return while her mother did everything possible to erase all traces of him, having music (something that reminded her of happy times with her parents) banished from her life, and also managed to outlive not only her mother and uncles, but also her husband, her sister-in-law, and even one of her daughters might end up in a depressive mindset. Bringing back music to her life and allowing her to talk about her father after all this time might theoretically do her some good.
> 
> As for Helena López, I borrowed the name and some of other info from [im-fairly-whitty on Tumblr](https://im-fairly-whitty.tumblr.com/post/170034765589/do-you-have-any-headcannons-for-the-security-lady#notes). She's the woman running the scanner that Héctor tried to use in the movie.


	3. Legato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't picked up on this fact yet, I'm using musical terms to name the chapters for this story. The first chapter was called "overture," which is the instrumental introduction for an opera. The second chapter was "estinto," which literally means extinct or extinguish. It is written on sheet music to indicate that the style for that section should be as soft as possible, lifeless, and barely audible.
> 
> "Legato" indicates that the notes should be smooth and almost run right into each other rather than clear and distinct articulation.
> 
> Look at that. All those years in band is paying off in unexpected ways.

Imelda led the agent inside, trying to resist her initial reaction and actually have an open mind. The woman was a guest. She needed to be hospitable rather than to jump to conclusions like her mind was already trying to do.

Helena followed her into the parlor and took the indicated seat. She seemed a little more comfortable as she set down her bundle of fabric than she did at the door. Imelda remained standing.

"How do you know Héctor?" asked Imelda.

She didn't mean for the accusatory tone to slip out. There was nothing to indicate that there was anything going on. Imelda forced herself to be objective. She was not going to make the same type of mistakes that led to decades of hatred and anger over crimes that he didn't commit.

But over ninety years of assuming the worst didn't make it easy for Imelda. And it was a very long time for him to be alone. Especially since Imelda did make it clear that she wanted nothing to do with the man. Multiple times. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he finally moved on when faced with her cold rejection.

And the agent _was_ both young and beautiful. Certainly younger than Imelda, both chronologically and physically. Her short, smooth, black hair flattered her face nicely under her uniform's hat. And the red, yellow, and orange facial markings made her look warm and friendly. The twin sun patterns on her jaw and the large orange dots that encircled her eyes sockets were especially lovely. There was no denying the fact that Helena López was a beautiful young woman, the sort that could catch the eye of any man.

But there was no proof or even any indication that Héctor would have… And even if he did, what right did Imelda have to complain? She surrendered any claim to him when she refused to even let him approach her for decades. Or even when her actions in life left him on the Final Death's doorstep.

"I suppose I can't really say that I know him. Not really. But everyone who works at the Marigold Grand Central Station at least knows _of_ him. Agents, security guards, and even the clerks. Héctor is infamous," Helena said. "You see, every year for a little less than a century, Héctor has tried to cross the bridge. But he never has a _foto_ on any _ofrenda_ , so he isn't allowed to cross it. But that doesn't seem to matter to him. And so every year, he tries new and creative methods of trying to cheat and con his way across anyway. Several of my coworkers try to predict what his next attempt might be." She smiled briefly at a memory, almost wistful. "My first year was the one where he disguised himself as an alebrije. There was a trail of paint everywhere." Then her expression became slightly more solemn. "But his attempts in the last decades have been more desperate."

The jealousy and suspicion that had tried to rise up were promptly crushed by her explanation, pulling Imelda towards more important thoughts. He never stopped trying to come home. Imelda took a shaking breath as she realized exactly what Helena was saying. Héctor never stopped trying to make it back home. Even when he knew it was impossible, he kept trying. First, he tried to reach both of them. And once Imelda passed, he still tried to reach their daughter.

Héctor never gave up trying to make it back to them. He never stopped loving his family and wanting to see them again.

"I eventually grew curious about why he kept trying," she continued. "So I went digging into some files that I'm technically not supposed to access. It took a while. He's actually got a pretty impressive record thanks to all his attempts. But I eventually found a reference to a very loud confrontation between him and a certain Imelda Rivera. A rather one-sided confrontation."

If she had any flesh left, Imelda would be blushing. She knew exactly what Helena was talking about. That very public outburst at Héctor was not her proudest moment. It was also the first time that she'd seen him since Héctor left home. There had been a lot of fury at the man involved and she had not been subtle about her feelings at all. Which explained the record that Helena mentioned.

"Finding information on you and your family was slightly easier. Especially since your files were more up-to-date since you cross every _Día de Muertos_. I… figured out the connection between the two of you. Héctor was once your husband and he was trying to see your daughter. Am I right?"

" _Sí_ ," said Imelda quietly.

Helena shook her head and said, "I wished he could have crossed the bridge, that there was a loophole he could use. I did some research over the years, trying to see if there was any other way he could make it. Something older than the current systems. Before photography, there were other ways to represent the dead family members on _ofrendas_. And the scanners are a relatively new addition, long after his arrival. They only helped streamline and speed up the process. But no matter how hard I looked, there was nothing that could be done for him. No _foto_ on an _ofrenda_ , no crossing the bridge."

It was hard to figure out exactly what Helena's relationship with Héctor might be. Imelda was relatively certain by now that she had no romantic intentions towards him. But Helena also admitted to not actually knowing him. She apparently saw him once a year and only in a professional setting. So it wasn't really a friendship either.

But she both sympathized with his situation and respected his determination. And she cared about his well-being enough to come look for him after last night.

"Watching his yearly attempts wasn't as entertaining when you understand _why_ he did it. I wish I could say that any parent would do the same, but very few people would keep trying as long as he has. I started making sure that I would be working whatever line he was spotted heading towards. At least I tried to be kind about it and wouldn't laugh. But we could all tell that he was running out of time."

She smoothed out her uniform. Her smile was a bit sad now.

"Last night, he tried disguising himself as Frida Kahlo to get across. It wasn't exactly his most creative attempt. And when that didn't work, he made a run for it. He knew what the rest of us could clearly see. That he wouldn't be able to try again next year. When the security guards dragged him away, I fully expected him to keep coming back all night and trying different tricks."

"But he ran into Miguel instead," said Imelda.

Helena nodded and said, "So it would seem. I don't think anyone else in the audience realized that he was the Héctor mentioned at the Sunrise Spectacular since he was never shown on screen. Not even the other departure agents will figure it out because they won't realize the connection to you. Assuming that they recognized you on stage, of course." She shrugged slightly. "Not many people will believe any member of the Rivera family of shoemakers would sing on stage, let alone you. You have a bit of a reputation when it comes to both shoes and music. Most will assume that the singer just bears a strong resemblance to you."

So if anyone came looking for the real talent behind Ernesto de la Cruz, they wouldn't know where to start. Her family would have some peace for the moment. People might figure it out eventually and start prying; from what she understood, obsessed fans and paparazzi were like starving vultures and never gave up. But they would have some time before that happened. Imelda was thankful for that much.

"But since I've already admitted that returning the confiscated property was more of an excuse than anything, I suppose I should ask what I came to find out," said Helena, brushing her hair back slightly in a gesture that would have tucked it behind her ear when she was alive. "Señora Rivera, do you know what happened to Héctor? Is he…?"

A pang of worry and an overwhelming urge to return back upstairs to check on him coiling around her, Imelda said quietly, "He's… He hasn't been forgotten. Not yet. But he's… he's not doing well."

Helena's expression dropped at the news. But she didn't look surprised. She'd known the Final Death had been creeping up on him for a long time. Longer than Imelda had known. After a moment where she tried to school her features back into something professional and controlled, the agent stood up and straightened out her uniform.

"I understand. Then I won't take up any more of your time," she said with a short nod, her Customer Service expression firmly in place. "Thank you for telling me."

She started heading towards the door before Imelda could say a word. Everything in the young woman's body language stated how much Helena suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if she worried her presence wasn't wanted any longer. As if she felt as if she'd overstayed her welcome and didn't belong. And there was pity in her eyes. Pity for Héctor and pity for Imelda.

Imelda fought the urge to grit her teeth in response. She didn't want some strange woman's pity. She hadn't even accepted it from the neighbors she'd known her entire life. But the pity for Héctor… She would keep her silence and accept it on his behalf.

"I know it's a lot to ask," Helena said, pausing as she stepped out, "but if something should happen… I don't want to wait a year to find out if he'll ever try to cross the bridge again." She shook her head sadly. "It would be hard to imagine a _Día de Muertos_ without Héctor showing up. Not all papás are as loyal and determined as him. I saw enough in life as a social worker to know that for a fact."

"We will let you know if anything happens," said Imelda. "And… thank you. For returning the dress. And for watching over him."

"I just wish I could have helped him."

As soon as she eased the door closed, Imelda hurried towards the stairs. She didn't run. She wasn't panicking as she realized how long she'd been gone. Imelda _didn't_ panic. But if she moved faster than necessary and skipped a couple stairs, there was no one awake to witness it.

For once, Imelda felt grateful for the unnatural light coming from Héctor's bones. Even with the sunlight coming through the glass door, she caught a glimpse of the glow escaping from the room before she actually reached the doorway. Even before she saw him, she knew he was still where she left him. Héctor hadn't disappeared.

"I didn't mean to take so long," she murmured gently, slipping back into her chair.

She didn't expect him to hear her any more than she did earlier. Héctor looked exactly as before, lifeless and glowing. He hadn't improved even slightly. But he wasn't gone. And Imelda felt better talking to him as if he could hear her. It made it easier to ignore how wrong Héctor seemed in this state, so drastically different from his normal energetic self.

Imelda reached for his hand again, the bones still too cool and brittle in her gentle grip. She took a shaking breath. There was nothing she could do except wait and hope for the best. Imelda didn't like doing nothing. It was too similar to being powerless. And she refused to ever be powerless.

Not back when Imelda needed to find a way to support her family on her own. And certainly not now.

"But I can be patient," she said. "If you can wait all this time to see our daughter, then we can wait for you. We can wait. You just need to get better. Wherever the Final Death has tried to take you, you can't stay there. You need to get better, Héctor."

Even spoken quietly, her words had force and command behind them. It wasn't a request, but more of an order to him. She not-quite-begged the lifeless figure to do what she'd wanted from Héctor for ninety-six years: please find your way back.

Unspoken was the same plea that she'd spent countless nights whispering into their empty bed until that hope crumbled to dust under the harsh realization that she would never see him alive again.

_I want you, I miss you…_

_Please come home._

* * *

Sleep came quickly due to weariness, but it wasn't the most restful slumber. The memories of the night before continued to tumble around Rosita's skull and she kept thinking about both Mamá Imelda and the long-estranged family member one floor down from her room. Only her general exhaustion from the stressful events from _Día de Muertos_ ensured she slept at all.

But after a few hours of troubled sleep, the rest of the family began to stir again. They crept to the ground floor, not even daring to look at the door. No one wanted to risk disturbing Imelda. Not right now. Not after everything that happened. Instead, the Rivera family tried to keep their voices down and avoid the creaking floorboards.

They whispered among themselves around the table. They mostly discussed the events of their chaotic _Día de Muertos_. Like Miguel almost dying. Or the fact that Ernesto de la Cruz murdered Héctor decades ago and nearly did the same to Miguel last night. Or the fact that Mamá Imelda actually sang.

That last was probably the most shocking part of the entire night.

"She used to sing so beautifully," said Oscar softly. "She loved it. And—"

"—she would do it all the time," Felipe continued. "Not in front of a crowd like that, though. Never more than—"

"—a couple dozen people at most. And even then, she preferred smaller groups. Honestly—"

"—we always thought she might have a little stage fright when it comes to a big audience."

"Mamá Imelda? She wouldn't be afraid of anything," said Julio.

Crossing her arms and giving her papá a meaningful look, Victoria said, "Not even of performing for thousands of people with no warning and not having sang in almost a century? That might make anyone pause. Even Mamá Imelda."

"But she did it. She sang in front of everyone. And it was amazing," Rosita said, smiling at the memory of the beautiful song. "But I don't think she was really performing for the crowd, even while she tried to keep the _foto_ from de la Cruz." Knowing that she was treading close to dangerous territory, Rosita paused briefly before adding, "I think Mamá Imelda was singing for _him_."

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. The topic of Héctor was still one that none of them were certain how to approach or if they were even allowed to broach it. For decades, no one could mention him. Not under Imelda's roof. They had all seen and inferred enough to know how much anger and hatred that Imelda felt towards the man.

And yet she sang on stage to protect his photograph, she held his hand in hers when they gave Miguel the blessing and she didn't immediately let go afterwards, and now she was sitting vigil at his bedside to see if Héctor would survive. Those were not the actions born from hate.

None of them knew what any of this meant. Had Imelda forgiven Héctor after all? If he ever woke up, would he be welcome in the household from now on? Was music allowed again?

"Back when she would sing, Imelda always seemed happiest when she sang with him," said Oscar slowly.

"And Héctor's music always sounded even better when he played for her," Felipe added.

Rosita smiled and said, "How sweet."

Other than the twins, none of them had met the man before last night. They'd only known what little Imelda would reveal. They knew that he was a musician who abandoned his family. It painted a very different impression from what they'd seen of Héctor. Everything about him made him seem like a good man who made a mistake, one that he was still paying for. Rosita could tell that he truly cared for Imelda and his family.

Perhaps it was merely Rosita's romantic streak making her see things that weren't there. Even though Rosita never found herself attracted to any of the men in Santa Cecilia (much to the increasing frustration of her mamá over the course of her life), she always enjoyed watching couples together. She was happy to see them happy together. And when her brother married a woman that he absolutely adored, Mamá Imelda welcomed her into the family and the business without hesitation. If anyone would believe that Rosita could have a happy life without finding a husband, it would be that woman. But Rosita had always wondered if _all_ of Imelda's old feelings for the man who left her had transformed into hate.

Now it would seem she might finally have her answer. Rosita could tell that just as Héctor still cared for Imelda, she still felt something for him as well. And learning that he was murdered trying to come home wouldn't have created those feelings anew. It would merely give Imelda permission to acknowledge those emotions again.

The entire thing was so sweet and romantic if she thought about it right.

Except for the fact that Héctor was nearly forgotten and came so close to the Final Death that he ended up in a state unnervingly close to a dead version of a coma. And no one knew if he would ever wake up or would even survive. That was pure heart-breaking.

She hadn't seen many people suffer the Final Death, but Rosita had seen it a few times. Mostly in cases where one obscure family member in a large family managed to slip through the cracks, the living losing track of a distant cousin several generations back or a great-great-uncle who didn't survive childhood. People who still had relatives in death to care for them even as the living forgot. Those without anyone in life or death, those with no _ofrendas_ and barely remembered, probably disappeared more often. But they usually hid away, so the Final Death was still a rare and frightening thing to witness for those more fondly remembered.

Rosita quietly hoped that this love story wouldn't end in tragedy before they had a chance to see if the relationship could be rekindled.

"It is growing a little late," said Victoria eventually. "Do you think we should check on Mamá Imelda?"

Ducking his head nervously, Julio said, "I don't think she would want to be disturbed."

"I'll go and see if I can talk to her," Rosita said. "Maybe she'll even get some rest."

"Good luck with that," said Felipe.

Rosita refused to let his comment nor her brother's nervousness dissuade her. Standing up from the table, she started gathering up a few items. A quilt from the linen closet. One of Victoria's books that she'd borrowed earlier and was halfway through. A bowl that she filled with warm water and a soft washcloth. And once she gathered her various articles, Rosita carried them upstairs.

"Mamá Imelda?" she called softly as she entered the room.

Then she paused. Rosita stared at the scene for a moment. Héctor remained exactly as he was before, limp and glowing with the unnatural light of the Final Death. But Mamá Imelda had managed to doze off in the chair by his side. She held his hand gently even in slumber. Once again, Rosita was hit by the sheer sweetness of it. The two of them must have been adorable when they were young, before Ernesto ruined everything.

She set everything down on the vanity. Then Rosita reached for Imelda's shoulder and shook her gently.

Imelda startled awake almost instantly, a brief flicker of panic in her eyes before she spotted Héctor in front of her. Only after she seemed reassured of his continued existence did she turn towards Rosita.

"You need to sleep, Mamá Imelda," she said with as much kindness as she could put into her words.

"I'm fine."

"I know you are. But you've been up all night too and we'll probably need to open the workshop tomorrow. We can't stay closed forever. So maybe you could get some proper sleep," Rosita said. "Please? I can keep him company for a while."

Her stubborn expression remained in place for a moment. Then Imelda softened slightly, her tiredness and worry slipping back into her expression. Rosita chose to risk and push a little more.

"You're welcome to my room, if you like. I can sit in here and read as you get some sleep," she said. "I wanted to finish this book soon and return it to Victoria anyway. I promise to let you know if anything changes."

Imelda slowly gave a reluctant nod, accepting the offer. She carefully released Héctor's hand and settled it back on the comforter. Then she stood up from the chair. The woman stepped over to her wardrobe and pulled out something made of a white flowing fabric, her nightgown.

"Thank you, Rosita. A short rest would probably be good for me," said Imelda softly. "Is everyone else all right?"

" _Sí_ , Mamá Imelda. They're downstairs and should be fine on their own until morning. You don't need to worry about us. Just take care of yourself for now and get some sleep. Please?"

"I will, if only to keep you from worrying. I know how you are."

Remembering how she used to watch over and worry over little Elena and Victoria just as much as Coco did when they were children, Rosita couldn't argue. Even if she never married or had children of her own, she couldn't hide or deny her nurturing nature. Taking care of people was part of who Rosita was. Worrying over those she cared about wasn't something she could prevent.

Imelda paused briefly at the doorway, giving the figure in the bed one final look. Then she left, the stairs creaking as she climbed to the third floor. Rosita listened to the footsteps until Mamá Imelda reached the room and settled in. Once it grew silent again, Rosita reclaimed the bowl of water and sat down.

She'd seen Héctor the night before. And it wasn't just his dull yellow bones that made him look so grubby. It was hard to tell now that the glowing obscured most of the details, but she'd noticed how much dust and dirt had accumulated on his bones. Running all over the city with Miguel, not to mention the times he collapsed to the ground as his body spasmed with his approaching fate, left him rather coated by morning.

It wouldn't hurt to clean the worst of it off. It was the least that she could do for Héctor. She wanted to do something helpful. Besides, Rosita always felt better when she was clean after a warm bath.

Dipping the washcloth in the warm water briefly, Rosita reached over and gently ran it across his skull. Along his forehead, past his temples, and around his eyesockets, she used small and careful motions. She used the same technique she used occasionally when she babysat Coco's children and needed to give them a bath before bedtime, gentle and soothing. She focused briefly on cleaning around the bright facial markings, tracing each one with the washcloth before moving on to the next. Moving one hand to the back of his head to help steady him, Rosita moved down his cheekbones and then along his jaw. He never moved and never reacted to her efforts. But Rosita didn't let that deter her.

He died so young. That thought hit her as she rinsed off the washcloth. He must have been only a few years older than Abel back in the Land of the Living. It didn't seem fair. It wasn't fair that he died so young, that Imelda lost him and didn't know why, that none of them were able to get to know him before now, and that the Final Death tried to take him.

"But you'll be fine," she assured, wringing out the water. "The Final Death won't have you. You're safe."

Supporting his skull cautiously and lifting his body slightly off the pillow, she moved the washcloth down the vertebrae in his neck. Rosita worked carefully between each one. Then she pulled him up a little further, half nervous that his loosely-connected bones would scatter apart. Equal parts gentle and determined, she slowly tugged the ragged shirt off his frame without damaging it further. Then she dragged the washcloth along the rest of his exposed vertebrae and wiped along the back of his ribcage before settling Héctor back on the bed properly.

Avoiding the carefully-wrapped broken bones, she continued with the small circular motions. The rest of his rib cage, along his shoulders, and then down his arms.

"She still loves you, you know," Rosita said quietly. "Coco, I mean. She couldn't talk about you. None of us did. But if someone did bring up the topic, Mamá Imelda would get angry." As she spoke, she focused on rubbing the damp cloth along each bone in his hand. "Not Coco, though. She never got mad about you. She would seem sad and clearly missed you, but never angry. Not in all the years I knew her. No matter what happened, she still loves you. And when you wake up and she gets here, she can tell you so herself."

As she finished with his other hand, Rosita turned her attention to the worst of the mess: his feet. The poor man had been running around barefoot for who knows how long. The dirt must be completely ground into his bones by now, especially with all the nicks and small scratches she'd noticed on him that would be perfect for trapping grime. Not that she could risk actually scrubbing. She had to already be careful with his thicker bones, his body impossibly fragile currently. The smaller ones in the feet wouldn't survive rough handling. The last thing he needed was for her to shatter or crush his bones by accident.

The Final Death brought him to the brink of becoming dust. It wouldn't take much to push his body the rest of the way.

"We'll need to take care of this eventually," she said, the washcloth gently working the dirt off the glowing surface of his bones. "A Rivera without any shoes? That's just wrong. What kind of family would we be if we let this continue? One of our own without shoes is practically a crime."

Once she was satisfied that she'd done as much as she could, Rosita rinsed off the washcloth one final time. The water had cooled by now and looked rather murky. She couldn't imagine where Héctor had been to pick up so much dirt and dust. But at least he was cleaner than before, so Rosita felt a little better.

Setting the bowl aside, she picked up the quilt that she'd brought up and pulled it over the still figure. She tucked Héctor in the same way Mamá did when Rosita was a child. The fabric didn't completely block out the light radiating from his bones, but it did dim the glow. Then, taking a moment to fold his tattered shirt and making a mental note to see if they could salvage it at a later time, Rosita leaned back into the chair with the borrowed book.

He was as comfortable as she could make him and now it was time for her to settle in. She had a feeling it would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Imelda is finally getting some rest. Considering the fact that she's probably been awake since the day before and it was a very stressful evening, she needs some sleep. Thankfully, she has plenty of family to help keep an eye on things.
> 
> And next time, we'll get to check on the living family again briefly. Miguel still needs to find out how long he's grounded for.


	4. Forte Piano

By the time Miguel dragged himself groggily out of bed, the sun had moved most of the way across the sky. He wasn't exactly certain what his family talked about while he was sleeping, but he could tell that the topic had been something important. They couldn't exactly hide the overall mood as he wandered out of his room.

It wasn't going to be easy. He knew that. Even if Mamá Coco's reaction to the song managed to strike everyone dumb for a while, the issue of music would eventually come to the forefront again. Not to mention they would probably try to ask him more questions. Trying to figure out how to navigate through this mess was going to be next to impossible. He had an easier time sneaking into Ernesto de la Cruz's mansion.

But Miguel didn't really focus on that. He was practically starving by now. And he could smell Abuelita's tamales, his hunger gnawing at him.

He slipped into a chair next to Mamá Coco, noticing her distant expression brighten at his arrival. Not long after that, the rest of the family began to join them and dinner properly began.

"So how long am I grounded?" asked Miguel as Abuelita loaded up his plate with food.

"We've discussed it carefully, _míjo_ ," Papá said. "Two weeks seems fair. No television, no _fútbol_ , definitely no visiting the plaza, and you will either be here or at school."

An idea sparking, Miguel asked, "What about the _biblioteca_?"

That earned him a few looks from everyone around the table. Miguel knew that he wasn't exactly a bookworm, so him asking to go there during his punishment was a bit unusual. But he was hoping that the idea of him reading and learning would be something his parents would want to encourage and they would agree to the exception. And not only were there probably some books that he could borrow that could be useful and maybe some old newspapers or something from the right time period, but there was also a large color copier that the librarians would allow people to use.

"Only for schoolwork and only if you let one of us know first," said Mamá finally.

Miguel nodded, accepting the terms without hesitation. He could work around those limitations for what he needed to do. And it was a minor miracle that his punishment wasn't worse. He would have expected a full month. At a minimum.

As Miguel took a few bites of dinner, Tío Berto said, "You know, there was some type of commotion in town today. The crypt of that musician with the statue? Señor Ernesto de la Cruz? Someone apparently broke in and stole one of his old belongings. Everyone is talking about it."

Only the fact that everyone was looking at Tío Berto with curious expressions kept them from noticing the way Miguel's eyes widened. He really didn't think the guitar thing through. Considering it was Ernesto's crypt, people were bound to notice when the beautiful instrument vanished overnight. How could he be so dumb?

But he _wasn't_ taking it back.

"What did they take?" asked Papá.

"The man's guitar," Tío Berto said. "The one that hung in his crypt on the wall. Right under his portrait. The way they were talking, you would have thought someone stole the man's body from his resting place."

And after a brief pause, some of his family members started giving Miguel some strange looks again. None of them wanted to accuse him, but they were all wondering now. After all, they knew Miguel's homemade instrument had been destroyed the night before and he showed up with a new one the next morning. A professionally-crafted guitar that would have cost more than he could have afforded with his allowance.

"Where _did_ you get that guitar?" asked Rosa, apparently willing to broach the subject when no one else would touch it.

"It's Papá's guitar," Mamá Coco said firmly. Her tone and the fact she could follow the conversation startled everyone into paying close attention. "I would recognize it anywhere. And you can see it in the _foto_. It is the same."

Smiling at her mamá, Abuelita said, "And that settles the matter."

Miguel smiled before taking another bite of his dinner. That was one problem dealt with. Even if everyone in Santa Cecilia came to their doorstep tomorrow and claimed the guitar belonged to Ernesto de la Cruz, Abuelita would send them running with a _chancla_ to the head. She wouldn't let anyone upset Mamá Coco over the guitar.

"I missed hearing that guitar," Mamá Coco said, something close to cunning glittering in her eyes. "It always made me so happy. Miguel plays a lot like him. He knows so many of his songs."

"I'm glad you liked it, Mamá Coco," said Miguel.

"Can you play more of them after dinner?"

Oh, she _was_ being clever. Apparently she was making up for a lifetime of keeping quiet to protect her treasured keepsakes of her father. She said she would help him and she was already starting with it.

He snuck a peek at the rest of the family. Watching everyone's shifting expressions at the idea of going against the music ban was almost hilarious. _Almost_. At least, it would be if the stakes weren't so important to him. No one knew what to do or say. Almost everyone at the table grew up under the ban. Change could be hard. But they wanted Mamá Coco happy and they would do almost anything to help her remain aware and remembering for a little longer.

But that might not be enough to convince them. Mamá Coco couldn't do this all by herself. Otherwise the music ban would have ended a long time ago. She needed support.

"Abuelita," he said carefully. "I know Mamá Imelda said no more music, but that was a long time ago. We can't blame music or Papá Héctor for everything and ignore all the good things about them. Not forever. We aren't protecting our family from making the same mistake that he did. Not by this point. We're doing it because that's what we've _always_ done. No other reason. But forgetting and ignoring doesn't help. We're just taking something away from this family."

When he saw her conflicted expression, Papá Franco added gently, "Elena, _mi amada_. You remember when I asked to marry you? I knew that in order to join this family, I would have to give up music. I accepted that condition without regrets. I love you. I would always choose you. But I had the choice. I _chose_ to live a life without music with you." He gestured at the family. "Our children? Our grandchildren? Even you? There was never a choice. That choice was taken at birth." Papá Franco smiled at her encouragingly. "Perhaps it is time this family regains that choice."

Abuelita looked at her husband. Then she turned to Miguel, his expression silently pleading. She looked at Mamá Coco, her eyes growing a little dim and distant as not even music could erase all the years at once. She turned towards Rosa and Abel, both of them trapped between uncertainty and an unexpected spark of hope.

"Mamá."

Miguel turned to see his papá giving her a look that he couldn't quite identify. For a moment, neither of them spoke a word. But there still seemed to be a lot of communication going on anyway. It caused both of the adults to briefly glance at Miguel with faintly guilty expressions before turning back towards each other.

His voice firm, Papá stared at her and simply said, "Please."

She remained steady for a moment longer, not responding even as a flurry of emotions flashed in her eyes. Finally, Abuelita sighed and slumped in her chair.

"Maybe it is time for a change," she said slowly. "Music can do more than just harm this family. After this morning, we can't deny that any longer. And it isn't fair to deny Mamá something that makes her so happy. Nor the rest of the family." Abuelta gave a small nod. " _Sí_ , Miguel. You can play for her. We can have music in this house."

Hearing something that he'd wished for his entire life sent a jolt of shock and pure joy through Miguel like a bolt of lightning, sharp and intense. It took all the boy's willpower not to jump up from the table or try out an excited _grito_. He could be a musician. He could be a musician and his family would _let him_.

* * *

 _Imelda wasn't certain what she was doing down here. She vaguely knew that they had gone to the Land of the Living like normal for_ Día de Muertos _, though she couldn't seem to remember any details about the visit. Only that Miguel seemed to be upset, hanging back from his family and barely looking at anyone while Coco seemed even more lost in her fading mind than last year. But no other details came to mind. Just like she didn't remember coming down to the lower levels of the city, a somber place for the ones on the verge of being forgotten._

 _Someone like her didn't belong in Shantytown. She was well-remembered, her descendants still running the same business she started decades ago and her picture always firmly in place on top of the_ ofrenda _. The small ramshackle houses and the plank bridges across the still water belonged to those with no family and no hope. It was a dark, dank, and quiet place, not a single soul in sight during the early hour. Imelda couldn't think of any reason why she should come down here, especially before the break of dawn. Even with the distant lights of the city above to obscure things, she could tell that the sun hadn't quite cleared the horizon yet. Something about sunrise nagged at her, but not enough to make her remember anything specific._

_Just as she found herself wandering through this forsaken place for reasons she couldn't recall, Imelda found herself drawn towards one of the half-collapsed buildings. She almost expected the door to fall off as she opened it with a rusty creak. Imelda stepped across the uneven floor, trying to see through the shadows._

_Eventually her eyes adjusted enough for Imelda to make out a shape sprawled on the floor, making her freeze in surprise. Half on his side and his arms curled close to his limp body, Héctor looked like the picture of absolute misery. He wasn't even trying to push himself upright; he just remained motionless on the rough wood planks with a hopeless expression and dried tear tracks through the dust on his face. And now that she was listening for it, she could hear a familiar tune being hummed. A song she'd heard Coco singing at night during her childhood, her daughter still hoping for his return. The sound was weak and choked by clear sorrow, but still recognizable._

_She should be happy about Héctor looking so upset, but something in Imelda felt like it was breaking at the sight. She tried to push that down. He deserved to be lonely and miserable on_ Día de Muertos _. If he couldn't stay with his family in life, then he didn't get them in death. Imelda refused to waste any more time on the man. She should turn around and leave before he noticed her presence. Otherwise—_

_A golden light shimmered across Héctor's body, cutting off her previous thoughts and leaving him shaking weakly until it passed. Imelda found herself kneeling beside him before she even realized that she'd moved._

_He was being forgotten. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. She reached out a shaking hand towards him._

" _Héctor?" she called quietly._

_He didn't react to her words, staring blankly and gasping weakly. And when she tried to take his hand, she passed right through him like smoke. She wasn't really there. She should question it, but all she could focus on was fading skeleton._

"Lo siento _," mumbled Héctor. "_ Lo siento _."_

" _Hold on," she said, trying to take his hand even as it proved to be futile. "You're going to be all right. I'm here."_

_He kept whispering apologies even as he struggled to breathe through the exhaustion, unable to see, hear, or feel her presence. Even as she tried to run her hand through his hair as she used to, it did no good. For all practical purposes, Héctor was alone._

_Alone and being forgotten. He was dying, alone and unwanted._

_No, no, no. Panic fluttered in her empty ribcage. She didn't want this. She didn't want him to be forgotten. Imelda tried to cup his face, but it didn't work any better than his hand. She wasn't really there._

_She couldn't stop this. She couldn't help him. She was utterly powerless._

" _Just hold on, Héctor," she urged. "I'm here. Hold on a little longer. Miguel will…"_

_Her voice trailed off. Why did she mention that boy? He couldn't do anything. He didn't know about Héctor. No one knew anything about the man anymore. Only her precious daughter remembered Héctor._

_But not much longer. The golden light seized his bones again, the spasms leaving Héctor even weaker than before. He couldn't even open his eyes, his breathing reduced to ragged and shaking gasps. The sight was enough to leave her chest tight and her own breathing unsteady._

_This wasn't right. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be forgotten._

_No matter what he did, he didn't deserve this._

_But he was fading. He was slipping away. He was dying again._

_She never wanted this._

" _Don't you dare," she said. "Don't you dare leave me again."_

 _Deaf to her words, Héctor whispered,_ "Lo siento _… I tried, Coco… I wanted… to see you… one more…"_

_He stopped, panting from the effort to make his final apologies to someone who wasn't even present to hear them. He was too weak. He was slipping away too fast._

_Her face felt wet, but Imelda ignored it. She couldn't let this happen. There had to be a way to stop this. She couldn't watch it. It couldn't end for him like this._

_Alone. Abandoned. Unable to move. Lying on the floor of a semi-collapsed shack in Shantytown._

" _I tried…_ Lo siento _…_ Lo siento _, Coco…"_

" _I know you are, Héctor. I know," Imelda said, her voice cracking. "I'm here. Just hold on."_

_Her chest felt like her ribs were in a vice, the crushing sensation almost choking her. It wasn't right. This couldn't be happening. And as he slipped into unconsciousness, her panic and horror practically tripled._

_No, no, no. Imelda kept grabbing uselessly at his hand, his shoulder, and anything else she could reach. She kept passing right through him. She couldn't reach him. She couldn't stop this._

" _Héctor," she called desperately. "Please, don't do this. Stay with me. Do you hear me? Héctor!"_

_But he couldn't stop this any more than she could. This was out of their hands. It was Coco's memory that would decide his fate. A memory that was disappearing quickly._

_Imelda was powerless._

_The golden-orange light struck again. But not as a sudden attack that shook his body like before. A steady glow overtook his bones before her eyes._

" _No, no, no," she pleaded. "Not yet. Héctor._ Héctor! _"_

_But it was no use. Brittle bones gave way to the inevitable. Her chest hitched as Héctor's body collapsed into dust, surrendering to the Final Death before her eyes._

_No. This couldn't…_

_Horrified sobs tore their way out of her, her body shaking. The sun breaking over the horizon and shining through the door made it impossible to deny what happened._

_Héctor… He was…_

_He was gone._

_No._

_Her head dropped, Imelda curling around herself._

_He couldn't be…_

_No. No._

No.

Imelda sat up suddenly, choking on sobs that shook her almost as sharply as the Final Death itself. She struggled to slow her breathing while fighting through her disorientation. For a moment, she couldn't recognize the darkened room with the strange belongings and the comforter with far more pink than her own. But she slowly remembered she was in Rosita's room. And she remembered what happened before.

Wiping at her face as she flung herself out of bed, she found herself hurrying down the stairs as quickly and silently as possible. Phantoms of the nightmare chased after her. She had to see. He had to be certain.

Imelda came to a stop at the doorway of her room, still shaking as she looked inside. Héctor was still there, glowing almost as brightly as the oil lamp on her bedside table. Rosita had dozed off in the chair, her book resting on her lap. But she kept a hand on his shoulder, which should awaken her if he moved… or disappeared.

Everything was peaceful and calm.

Héctor was safe. He wasn't… He hadn't…

She reached out, bracing herself against the wall. If she'd still possessed a heartbeat, it would still be pounding from that nightmare. It was too intense. Too close to coming true.

Air. She needed fresh air. Imelda barely noticed her bare feet moving until she slipped out the front door. A cool breeze stirred her hair and felt comforting against her skull, waking her up and helping to banish some of the nightmare's effects.

A green glow announced Pepita's presence right before the large alebrije nudged her with her head. Imelda leaned into the contact, burying her face into the colorful fur and feathers. The loud purring rumbled through her bones, the feline-avian hybrid curling around her protectively. And while she would never crumble in front of anyone, Imelda broke for just a moment and cried into Pepita's fur.

It could have happened. That's what scared her so much about the nightmare. If Miguel didn't end up cursed or if she managed to send him home immediately, then Héctor would have probably spent the whole night trying to cross the bridge like Helena mentioned. And since Miguel wouldn't know that Coco needed to remember her papá, he wouldn't be able to help. Héctor wouldn't have survived. He would have suffered the Final Death and he wouldn't have been saved at the last moment.

He would have died and she wouldn't have known. That thought made her shake, causing Pepita to purr louder and nuzzle the woman. That's what almost happened. Without Miguel, it would have been so different. Héctor would have disappeared, alone and abandoned. And it would have been her fault. The Final Death would have been her fault.

And she wouldn't have known. She wouldn't have known that he was murdered trying to come home. She wouldn't have known that he spent his entire afterlife trying to make it back to his family. And she wouldn't have known he was gone.

He came so close. Once again, Héctor would have died and she would have remained ignorant of his fate. She wouldn't have even spared the man a thought.

Héctor wouldn't have let her know what was happening. Imelda dug her fingers into Pepita's fur. If it wasn't for their great-great-grandson stealing that guitar, Imelda would have never known he was being forgotten. Héctor wouldn't have come to say his final farewell. Not that she would have let him get a word out even if he tried. Imelda choked back another sob. No matter how complicated her feelings for Héctor might still be, the thought of how easily Héctor could have died in the exact same scenario as her nightmare broke her heart.

She wept silently into Pepita's fur, letting the cool night air and the rumbling purr slowly calm her. The alebrije remained steady and didn't judge her moment of weakness. Pepita simply waited for her. After a while, Imelda relaxed enough to pull back.

Pepita nudged her once more, but Imelda was already putting the pieces back together. Her calm control settled back into place.

She was fine. Tired. She was just tired. That's why she reacted so strongly to a dream. She was fine.

No matter how close he might have come, Héctor _didn't_ disappear yesterday morning. He _didn't_ die alone in Shantytown, abandoned and forgotten.

Yes, he was still on the verge of the Final Death. Yes, she had no guarantees that he would survive much longer. Yes, there was absolutely nothing that she could do to help him and that powerlessness still hurt. But he wouldn't be alone. His family would be with him, no matter what happened.

She slipped back inside the darkened house, her bare feet ghosting across the floor and her white nightgown shifting against her legs. She knew every creaky floorboard and avoided them without thought. Imelda didn't make a single sound as she headed back up the stairs.

Imelda paused again at the doorway. Nothing had changed. Héctor didn't look any better.

But he wasn't gone. He wasn't dust. There was still hope.

"Don't you dare leave me," she said from the across the room, barely breathing the words. "Not again. You have to get better."

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her emotions again. Then, giving the motionless glowing figure in the bed one more look and reassuring herself that he was still there, Imelda headed back towards Rosita's room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, but it was the most logical place to stop. While things are improving for Miguel back home, Imelda is dealing with the emotional fallout of the last twenty-four hours or so. Lots of guilt and regret and a delayed reaction to how close Héctor came to dying. 
> 
> "Forte piano" literally translates as "strong-gentle," but it basically means to hit a note hard and loud initially before immediately going soft.


	5. Staccato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick comment because of an anonymous reviewer on Fanfiction dot Net who is asking when this story will be over, wanting me to hurry up, and trying to apparently write the ending for me: I can't really respond to them properly because of the anonymous thing. So asking me questions isn't very helpful since I won't be answering them in the text normally. But this once, I'll make an exception.
> 
> I have no idea when this story will be complete. I have my plot worked out and I know what the ending will be like, but I can't provide a proper prediction of length or time frame. And asking for me to hurry up and update within three days of posting a chapter is just rude. Writing takes time and I do have a life outside of this.
> 
> Which leads to the second part: I already have the ending planned out, so your suggestions will not have any effect. If you want specific lines and paragraphs, you'll need to write your own story and post it. I'm not taking requests.
> 
> This information is for everyone. I appreciate feedback and predictions. Suggestions and requests have no effect. Sorry about that brief public service announcement. And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Dante trotted down the dark street carrying his twin burdens in his mouth. He was a Xoloitzcuintli on a mission, granted one that he'd been too distracted to complete for a while. He'd spent most of the day catching up on some sleep and snatching up food. But now he was ready to find them again. He would find them and help because Dante was a Good Boy.

The last couple days had been exciting. He spent so much time with His Boy and exploring. He could always slip between the Land of the Living and the Dead; all the Xoloitzcuintli dogs could do it, even if only a few other animals could make the journey. He didn't need to be an alebrije like them to do it. He could do it because he was a Good Boy and he was good at protecting and guiding. And when His Boy got in trouble, Dante followed and made sure Miguel found his family. Dante brought him to Héctor and tried to keep him from the Bad Man.

And since Dante was a Good Boy and took such good care of His Boy, he was an alebrije now. He glowed and could fly with his new wings. And it was strange at first, but flying was fun and Miguel said he was a Good Boy. So Dante was happy. It didn't take much to make him happy. Belly rubs, yummy food, nice words from His Boy, and now flying with the Big Kitty all made him happy.

But when Miguel went home and the Big Kitty, Pepita, flew everyone else away, he couldn't keep up. He was still learning how to fly with his new wings and she was fast. And then all sorts of skeleton people started wandering around where Miguel fell over the edge and they were talking loudly. Dante didn't know what he was supposed to do and he was tired. So he just grabbed what His Boy and his family left behind and ran off to find a cozy place to sleep that no one would find him.

Only once things calmed down and his belly was full of stolen food did Dante try to track them down. Even with wings, it wasn't easy. When Miguel ran off to the Bad Man, Dante found the Big Kitty fast because Pepita was close by and then Pepita found Miguel. Pepita was good at tracking. But finding Miguel's family was something Dante could do better than anyone else because he was a Good Boy and would take care of His Boy. So he followed their scent across the city to a quieter street until he found a place similar to Miguel's home, smelling like leather and shoes.

A curious sound, too deep to be a meow and too quiet to be a roar, met his arrival. Dante's whole body wiggled with excitement as he saw Pepita. She was a good Big Kitty, all furry and feathery and bright. He lowered the front half of his body as his tail whipped around, Dante pawing the ground in front of him. She licked his head politely in greetings, but didn't accept his invitation to play.

Too bad. It was too late for anyone else to play. Unlike last night, the skeleton people weren't all out with their exciting sounds and smells as they had fun together and went to see the people in the Land of the Living. They were sleeping tonight.

Dante gently set down his burdens: a red jacket that smelled exactly like Miguel and a straw hat that smell like dust, both slightly damp with drool. They left them behind, but Dante brought them back because he was a Good Boy. Everyone would be so happy.

Pepita rumbled quietly, nudging the hat with her nose. The scent made her ears prick forward with interest. She recognized it just like Dante did; it belonged to Héctor and Héctor went with Pepita and Her Person when they flew away the night before.

He wiggled excitedly. Pepita could watch the hat and give it back to Héctor. The skeleton man would be close and would get his hat back soon. And Dante could go back to His Boy with the jacket. This was a good plan. Dante would probably get his ears scratched in just the right place. It would be nice and he would be so happy.

Dante picked back up the jacket, his mouth holding firm to the fabric as his small wings flapped. It was time to go home and take care of Miguel.

He was such a Good Boy.

* * *

Coco woke up, the early morning light streaming through her window. She blinked her bleary eyes, trying to bring the ceiling into focus. Between her failing eyesight and her aching joints, she couldn't get around quite as much as she once did. But that wouldn't stop her from sneaking out that afternoon. She and Julio planned to meet in the plaza to go dancing…

No, they didn't do that anymore. She and Julio were married now. And she couldn't sneak off dancing because it would worry her little Elena and Victoria, her daughters distrusting music almost as much as Mamá…

No, that was still wrong. Coco managed to pull her mind back to the present. A present where Mamá was dead, her Julio was dead, and even her Victoria was dead. But as that realization caused her heart to drop, memories from the day before pushed back the approaching mental fog.

Her precious lullaby performed by her great-grandson and music returning to their home. And Miguel sneaking into her room afterwards to tell her about his adventure in the Land of the Dead and meeting all their dead relatives. He told her about how her mamá, her husband, and her daughter were all happy and together. And how Papá wanted to see her and loved her.

It kept her happy and hopeful, forcing down the years of sorrow and loss that tried to drag her mind under and swallow her up. Those memories and the quiet tune wove through her head helped push back the confusion that had plagued her mind for so long.

She couldn't let her memory slip. Not again. Not yet. Miguel needed her help. _Pap_ _á_ needed her help.

Hope, joy, and songs helped keep her thoughts in the present. But so did having a purpose. Feeling useful once again and working towards a goal was almost as important as bringing back songs from her childhood.

Music had returned to the Rivera household. That took care of one difficulty for her great-grandson. He would be able to play music without fear. He wouldn't have to hide his heart's desire.

Her next goal would be to share as many stories about her papá as possible. Miguel said that Papá needed to be remembered. But it was so long ago, she was so young then, and her memory had frayed over the years. It wasn't easy to drag those memories back up. She would have to try. The more stories she could share, the more people would remember Papá.

And then there was one more thing that Coco needed to do. Ernesto de la Cruz murdered her papá and stole his songs. He needed to pay for his crimes. People needed to know the truth. She wasn't certain how she and Miguel were going to do it, but she would find a way to crack through that man's perfect mask. It wasn't fair that everyone apparently adored Ernesto when even their family tried to forget her papá.

Coco waited her entire life for Papá, never wavering in her certainty. He did and always would love her. And she refused to let his murderer escape, even in death. It didn't matter that she could barely move due to her age or that she knew that she probably didn't have much time left. She refused to let her mind cloud back over and she refused to consider the possibility of dying. She wasn't going anywhere until Ernesto de la Cruz was exposed.

A soft knock at the door pulled Coco the rest of the way awake. A moment later, Elena poked her head in and smiled as she met her eyes.

"Good morning, Mamá."

"Good morning, _míja_ ," she greeted. "Isn't it a nice sunrise?"

* * *

"We can't keep the workshop closed," said Imelda as the family, with the exception of Julio, started in on a very solemn breakfast. "Not two days in a row. No matter what else has happened, we still have orders to finish. We still have a business to run."

She had to be practical. Even weary from her restless night, Imelda knew that much. No matter what any of them might want, the rest of their afterlives didn't stop because of what happened on _Día de Muertos_. Imelda knew that they needed to continue with some semblance of normality. Otherwise they'd all wear themselves out with stress. And normality for their family meant returning to work.

"If you're sure…," said Felipe uneasily.

Yawning slightly, Rosita said, "Don't worry. Julio is going to stay with him this morning. They'll be fine."

"Well, Felipe and I could probably finish up that large order for the Pérez family," said Oscar slowly, exchanging looks with his brother. "And you were working on those shoes for Señorita Martinez."

Imelda nodded. She remembered that she was halfway finished when they closed early to prepare for _Día de Muertos._ What was left to work on for the project was detailed work, something that took focus and time. It would be a nice distraction, keeping her thoughts occupied and away from the lifeless figure on the bed for a little while.

If she didn't find a way to stop dwelling on him and his current state, she would drive herself mad.

"And maybe Victoria could help me with a few chores and errands today," Rosita said. "Unless you need our help, Mamá Imelda?"

Noticing how tired Rosita still looked from her night sitting next to Héctor, she said, "We should be able to manage on our own. Try not to overdo it."

"As long as you do the same, Mamá Imelda," said Victoria.

Imelda didn't dignify that with a response. They worried too much. She knew her limits better than anyone. And she was long past the days where she needed to work herself to exhaustion in order to survive.

True, she was already tired from the night before. But she'd worked through far worse conditions than a little drowsiness. And perhaps a hard day of making shoes would ensure that tonight would be different. Perhaps she would be too worn out that her sleep would be dreamless.

Julio would keep a close watch over Héctor. Her son-in-law was a steady and dependable man. She could count on him to take care of things for a few hours while she worked. Nothing would happen.

For a little while, she could ignore the rest of the world and simply make shoes. She couldn't help Héctor. She couldn't do anything for him. But Imelda could make shoes. She'd spent most of her life and death making shoes. When she could do nothing else, Imelda Rivera could still make shoes. As long as she was making shoes, she wasn't powerless.

Glancing around the table of solemn faces, Imelda said, "If you don't start eating now, your breakfast will be cold. And we are not wasting this food."

They didn't need to eat to survive, but so many habits of life still remained. And one such habit within the Rivera household was obeying the matriarch of the family. The clatter of silverware abruptly increased.

* * *

"Come _on_ , Miguel," called Rosa, her cousin finally joining her in the courtyard. "We're going to be late."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he shouted, pulling on the second strap of his backpack as he ran.

"What took you so long?" asked Rosa.

The two of them ran into the street, dodging the morning traffic with practiced ease. There were a few vehicles moving slowly along some of the roads, but it was mostly other pedestrians starting out their day. Both of them waved at familiar faces automatically. It was routine by now. They almost always went to school in the same manner: not quite racing each other, but still with a hint of competitiveness at making sure not to fall behind.

Grinning at her, Miguel asked, "What? Afraid I'll disappear again?"

"That's _not_ funny. We were really worried about you. We were out looking all night. I've never seen Tío Enrique so upset."

Miguel at least had the decency to look remorseful for his brief joking comment. He ducked his head and his eyes dropped to the ground even as neither of them slowed down.

"I didn't _mean_ for it to happen. Well, I _did_ mean to run off when Abuelita... But everything after that was an accident. And I am so sorry about scaring everyone like that."

Scowling as they turned a corner, Rosa said, "You still haven't explained where you vanished all night."

"You wouldn't believe me anyway," he said, laughing lightly. "It was pretty impossible."

"Abuelita said we can have music in our family yesterday. Anything is possible."

Before Rosa could go any further with her questions, a black blur nearly knocked Miguel off his feet. Barking excitedly and wiggling his entire body, the hairless stray bounced around the boy. Rosa recognized the Xoloitzcuintli as the one that her cousin kept feeding.

"Dante! You're back," Miguel shouted, rubbing the scrawny thing. "I missed you, boy. What do you got there?"

Rosa watched as he tugged at something dangling from the dog's mouth. It took a moment to recognize the red fabric as Miguel's jacket. The one he was wearing when he ran away, but he didn't have when he returned home. The stray eventually released his prize after some playful pulling, his tail wagging and tongue lolling out.

"You brought it back? I thought I'd never see it again," Miguel continued. "Thanks, Dante. Good boy."

"Come on," urged Rosa. "We have to get to school. And Abuelita told you not to name strays. Now you'll never get rid of the dumb dog."

Stuffing the jacket into his backpack, Miguel said, "He's not dumb. Dante knows a lot more than people think. He's probably smarter than you."

Rosa glanced at the stray, the dog now chewing on his hindleg to the point of nearly choking on it. She then turned back to Miguel with a raised eyebrow. All he could do was shrug.

* * *

She wasn't quite certain what she thought of Héctor Rivera. He was the man that she spent her entire life despising for abandoning her abuelita and her mamá. She'd seen how much Mamá continued to hope despite everything and Victoria had been certain even as a child that she would never forgive the man who did that to her mamá. And Elena's feelings on him, music, and the entire mess were even stronger, her sister inheriting Mamá Imelda's more fiery nature.

But recent revelations suggested that they never had the compete picture. No one had ever mentioned that he left with someone. Ernesto de la Cruz never seemed different than any other musician: someone not to be discussed, but not anyone connected to their family. And none of them ever considered the idea that Héctor Rivera's abandonment might not have been voluntary. No one suspected that murder was what kept the man from fulfilling his promise to return.

Victoria didn't know the man. And even what she thought she knew of him was only part of the story, incomplete and made murky by decades of assumptions. Victoria took pride in the fact she was a practical and sensible woman. She didn't know him. And she didn't know if she was ready yet to reexamine her thoughts on the man. There was a lot to consider. So for now, she was prepared to withhold judgment.

But even if she wasn't prepared to broach the topic of how she felt about the unconscious figure in Mamá Imelda's bed, she could still try to take care of some practical matters. As Rosita pointed out once Mamá Imelda and the twins headed over to the workshop, they couldn't keep trading places to sleep forever. And from what Tía Rosita told her about her overnight vigil, he didn't show any signs of improving. It could be days until Héctor woke up or he… Well, he could be with them for a while. So Victoria and Rosita started working on rearrangements.

The second floor of their home consisted of Mamá Imelda's bedroom, the shared bedroom for Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, a pair of bathrooms with comfortably large tubs and sinks to keep their bones clean after a long day, and a large office that Mamá Imelda used to do the numbers for the business. That office was now undergoing some serious work. Victoria and Rosita were straightening up the stacks of paper, pushing the desk and chair against one wall, and cleaning every corner of the room.

"You think this will help?" asked Rosita even though it was originally her idea.

Dragging a broom across the floor, Victoria said, "Mamá Imelda can't keep borrowing your room. She will need somewhere to sleep and once we finish straightening up in here, there should be plenty of space to set up a pallet."

"She might even sleep a little easier if she's in a room closer to him," said Rosita.

She didn't respond to her words or think about them too deeply. Victoria focused on sweeping the floor instead. She preferred to think about it in practical terms for the time being. Mamá Imelda needed somewhere to sleep. They were fixing that. Anything else, like how Mamá Imelda felt about the man now or how _Victoria_ felt about him, could wait a little longer.

"Do you think Héctor will be staying with us for a while?" continued Rosita, moving a few books to the desk.

"He isn't improving yet. And even when he does wake up, I doubt he'll be in any state to immediately run off."

 _When_ , not _if_. Considering the possibility of Héctor never recovering was something else that she would prefer to avoid for the moment. Especially since she would lose the chance to get to know the man and form her own opinions on someone she'd despised for so long.

Not to mention that even a blind man could see how much losing him to the Final Death would hurt Mamá Imelda.

"Well, if he ends up staying here for a while, maybe we should pick up a few things for him," said Rosita. "Perhaps he has some clothes in better condition? The shirt he was wearing before is in need of repairs. Maybe he has the other sleeve somewhere… And we want to make his stay as comfortable as possible, right?"

Victoria set the broom aside, giving the room a quick glance over. With the clutter straightened up and the furniture pushed out of the way, there should be enough space for someone to sleep in there. It would be a little crowded. There was nothing that they could do about that. But it should serve nicely as an improvised bedroom for the time being.

"That would require us knowing where his home is," Victoria reminded her. "And we do not."

Glancing away from her niece and towards an empty corner of the room, Rosita said quietly, "We do. We do know where he's been staying." She rubbed her arms, still refusing to look at her. "Héctor… There was no _foto_ on the _ofrenda_. There hasn't been one ever. No one ever spoke of him or passed on his memory. He almost suffered the Final Death at dawn yesterday morning. And his only family here refused to acknowledge him. There is only one place that he could have possibly been."

Victoria almost demanded that Tía Rosita stop speaking in riddles and just tell her the answer. But then she stopped and actually considered her words. And a wave of cold seemed to wash over her.

 _Los Olvidados_. Shantytown.

A place of abandonment and no hope, where those who had no one else and would soon be forgotten by the living completely ended up. A place where no one wished to go and all feared might eventually be their fate. A place to disappear before they truly disappear. A place for those on the brink of the Final Death.

And that's where he'd probably been before he met Miguel. Victoria didn't know for sure how long he might have spent down there, but Rosita was right. That was where he probably called home now.

"You want us to go to Shantytown," she said slowly. "Alone."

" _Sí_. Will you come with me?" asked Rosita, finally turning back towards her.

All common sense told her to refuse. Neither of them should head down there. They didn't belong. And the idea of willingly going down to such a dark and hopeless place bothered her in ways that Victoria couldn't explain. No one wanted to be reminded of what might happen to any of them if their stories and memories were ignored or forgotten. No one wanted to see what could happen.

But she'd already been reminded of what fate awaited those who are not remembered. She'd seen the golden-orange light that stole away Héctor's strength and energy until he was left clinging to his afterlife by a thread. Nothing could be as heartbreaking or upsetting to see as what lay across the hall at that very moment.

Besides, Rosita would go either way. She was a sweet woman, but she could still be a force to be reckoned with when she felt strongly enough. It was hard to guess sometimes that she wasn't born into the Rivera family.

Decision made, Victoria gave a firm nod and said, " _Sí_. We'll go together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Staccato" is the opposite of legato. It indicates that you should play each note brief and detached from one another. Each note marked by a staccato, which looks like a dot above it, should be distinct and strongly articulated.


	6. Battuto

Julio had long since come to terms with being a relatively nervous man in a family of strong-willed women. His sister was sweet, but she could also be a force of nature when it came to taking care of people. Coco was kind and loving, but had a rebellious streak and more spirit when he met her than seemed possible. Elena was fiery and passionate while Victoria was sturdy and dependable, both his daughters wonderful people that could not be swayed. And Mamá Imelda…

He loved and respected his mother-in-law. Julio was also mildly afraid of her. Mamá Imelda was a strong, independent, and forceful woman. She would never bend or break, no matter the obstacle or challenge. And she could tell him to do something and he would do it without hesitation or question. Because she was very, very intimidating. A single stern look and his willpower crumbled. And in death, she gained a giant alebrije who was as fierce as her.

And even if it wasn't for her personality, Julio would _still_ be nervous around her. Because at the end of the day, she was Coco's mamá. And just as he wanted his wife's love and happiness, he wanted her parent's approval.

He'd earned both. It wasn't easy to gain Imelda's approval, the woman determined to prevent her daughter from suffering the same heartbreak as she, but Coco offered her heart without fear. And with Coco's love and Mamá Imelda's acceptance, he married into the family and never regretted a second of it.

But now he was facing another relative of hers. Her father. The man that didn't mean to abandon his family, just like Coco always believed. The man who should have been there for her entire life, for her _wedding day_ , but was struck down by cruel fate.

Shifting his hat between his hands and staring down at his lap, Julio said, "You would have loved the wedding. Coco was the most beautiful bride that you would have ever imagined. She completely took my breath away. I almost passed out before the end. Partially because of how lovely she looked and partially just plain nerves." He chuckled softly before glancing up at the motionless figure on the bed. "She would have loved to have you there. Once, when I was still a tongue-tied boy dancing with her in the plaza, she told me that you used to play at wedding sometimes when she was a little girl. I think she would have liked to hear your music that day."

Héctor didn't react to his words. There was nothing to indicate that he could hear anything that Julio said. He was too silent and too still. He looked too much like a lifeless corpse. And the glowing from his bones, the way the Final Death clung to him so tightly and refused to release him, sent a shiver down Julio's spine.

But since he couldn't think of anything else that he could do, Julio decided that it was better to assume that Héctor could hear them wherever he was. Maybe it would help him to hear about his daughter, to hear about what he'd missed out on. Or maybe even just hearing a friendly voice would help guide him back.

"I don't suppose you know that Coco was a bit of a rebel," he continued. "That's how we met. She wasn't quite happy about the music ban, especially since she loved dancing. So she would sneak out whenever she had the chance, running off to the plaza and dancing to the songs that the mariachi played." He smiled at the memory. "One day while I was at the plaza, I saw the most amazing and talented _señorita_ dancing there with all her heart and soul."

The way she moved, as if she knew that any dance could be her final one, was truly hypnotizing. She loved dancing. The rhythm flowed through her body while the beat of the music became her heartbeat. Coco always looked impossibly bright, her expression filled with bliss and her movements graceful. The only time that she seemed happier was when she was with Julio and their girls.

But Coco eventually chose to leave dancing behind. She stopped sneaking off because their daughters needed her. Family comes first. But sometimes Julio wished that his Coco could have kept dancing, that she didn't have to choose between her passion and her love for her family. She lost a part of herself when she stopped. She lost some of that spark of life and fire.

He knew she would have always made that decision. She would always pick her loved ones over dancing and the music that went with it. But perhaps she shouldn't have needed to choose.

He loved Coco. Always had and always would. And because Julio loved her, he wanted her to be happy. Fully and completely happy.

Miguel would hopefully find a way to bring music back to her, even if she could no longer dance like she did in her youth. And now, maybe she would even have a chance to see her papá again.

"Someday Coco will join us here," Julio said. "She'll finally be told what happened so long ago. She'll know that you tried to come home." Once again, he shifted his hat between his hands anxiously. "And I hope that you'll be there to greet her. She'll want to see you as much as you've wanted to see Coco."

* * *

Biting back another snarl of frustration, Imelda started ripping out the stitches that she'd just finished. She knew better. She knew how to make these shoes; she could do this in her sleep. And yet she kept making dumb and amateurish mistakes. The shoe in her hand looked pitiful at this point. At this rate, she would have to start over completely.

"Imelda?" said Oscar cautiously.

"What?" she snapped and immediately regretted her sharp tone, not meaning to take her foul mood out on them.

Both of her brothers cringed back slightly. She could tell from their expressions and how they were avoiding her eyes that the two of them had been watching her pathetic attempts for a while. It didn't make her feel any better. It just left her frustrated and irritated with herself.

She'd hoped that this would help. If there was anywhere in the Land of the Dead where she felt in control and focused, it was their workshop. Positioned in front of the courtyard, the building had a front door for customers and a back door that led to the rest of their property. A long and worn-smooth counter divided the space into its two separate roles. All the tools of their craft and the raw materials were carefully organized within the back half of the building, the front half offering space for customers to be sized properly and to discuss what types of shoes they desire. The workshop was familiar and comforting, the scent of leather lingering in the air. Everything about it felt normal, secure, and safe.

But no matter what she tried to do, she couldn't focus on her work. She couldn't stop her mind from drifting back to the limp and lifeless figure in her bedroom and the way her entire worldview shattered a couple nights ago. Not even her attempts at distracting herself with work could still those thoughts.

"Perhaps it is time you take a short break," suggested Oscar slowly. "You know, maybe—"

"—stretch your legs?" Felipe continued. "Get some fresh air? A change of surroundings or something? It—"

"—might help." They both shrugged apologetically as Oscar said, "It certainly couldn't hurt."

Looking back at the pitiful scrap of leather in her hands that any Rivera would be embarrassed to call a shoe, Imelda couldn't bring herself to argue. She wasn't making any progress. She was only making a mess.

Imelda set aside her work and stood up from her stool. Perhaps her brothers were right. A short walk might help straighten out her head. Obviously work itself wasn't enough to quiet her mind. A piece of normality wasn't enough to help her.

"I'll be back shortly," said Imelda evenly. "Please resist the urge to experiment while I'm gone."

The brief flicker of guilt on both their faces told her that was exactly what they had in mind. Oscar and Felipe loved to invent and create new types of shoes, regardless of how practical or functional that they turned out to be. It was the type of distraction from current events that they would love to indulge in. But now was not the time for one of their "unique" creations, especially without supervision. And hopefully they would have enough sense to realize it.

She slipped out the back door of the workshop and stepped into the courtyard. Even with it right in front of her, she couldn't head into their house. She refused. Imelda suspected that if she set foot inside, she wouldn't be able to resist the pull to check on Héctor. And she already knew how hard it was to pull herself away.

He would be fine. Héctor would be all right, even without her watching over him. Julio would take care of him. Coco's memory would hold and Miguel probably managed to coax out some stories, even if she was barely responsive when Imelda glimpsed her last year. Everything would be fine. Imelda silently reassured herself a few times as she walked slowly, letting the sun warm her bones.

A flap of wings and a shadow passing overhead brought a brief smile to her face. Abandoning her perch on the balcony, Pepita landed lightly on the ground next to her. Imelda reached over to rub where her horns grew out of her alebrije's head, earning a gentle purr. Only as Pepita nuzzled her did Imelda notice that her alebrije was carrying something in her mouth.

"What do you have there, Pepita?" she asked quietly.

She wasn't certain what she expected. Mice were a little too small for Pepita to hunt down and bring home as gifts, though a vindictive part of the woman pointed out Ernesto's skull could serve as a decent substitute. But what Imelda received was far less impressive. Pepita gently dropped a ragged and worn straw hat into her waiting hands.

Imelda nearly dropped it, startled by the innocent-seeming object's presence. She knew this hat. She remembered seeing it before. That night, Héctor was wearing it. The straw hat was as frayed and weathered as the rest of his clothes and the man himself. She hadn't noticed when they'd lost track of it and she didn't know when Pepita found it. All she knew was that her alebrije gave it to her and was now staring at her expectantly.

She stared at the ragged straw thing for a moment, running her fingers across the rough texture where the edges were coming apart. Then Imelda closed her eyes and gently hugged the hat to her chest, producing a faint _crinkle_.

She still wasn't certain if she could completely forgive him and she would never forget what the last ninety-six years were like, but Imelda couldn't deny the truth any longer. She'd denied it and buried it for too many years, trying to hide it away because anger would always be easier to bear than grief.

She missed Héctor. Imelda missed the man in life and in death. Even when she drove him away, she still missed him. When he left, Héctor left a gaping emptiness in her heart that nothing could ever fill. Or rather, a ragged wound that never healed properly and where spite festered like an infection.

But it was more than that. She didn't just miss Héctor. Despite all the time that passed and the countless wrong assumptions about why he never came home, despite all her fury and heartache at the perceived betrayal and abandonment, and despite her active attempts to forget about the man who caused her so much pain, a part of Imelda continued to love Héctor the way she did when they first met. No matter what she tried, she never completely stopped loving him. And when she learned the truth and realized that at least some of that anger was groundless, that meant it wasn't wrong to still love him. She didn't have to feel disappointed in herself for holding onto those emotions after so long.

She loved him. Even when so much had changed, that remained constant. She spoke the truth when she yelled at Ernesto for what he'd done; even if she tried to pretend that she didn't say it out loud, she wasn't lying when she called Héctor the love of her life. Imelda still loved him.

Hugging his hat close and remembering the fragile skeleton, Imelda forced herself to admit that she still loved Héctor and always would. Everything else was still uncertain and confusing, but that much was a fact.

And she knew he remained on the brink. She knew that she had no guarantees that Coco's memory would hold out or that she managed to pass it on to Miguel. She knew the Final Death could still take him. And Imelda knew it was her doing.

He didn't blame her. At least, that's what he said that night. Héctor said that it was his fault that he was fading, not hers for lashing out in pain and grief for decades. He didn't blame her for trying to forget, for how the Final Death tried to pull him away. Héctor assured her that what was happening was his fault and even apologized in that moment, something that meant more to her than she would have expected.

He claimed that he didn't blame her, but Imelda knew that he should have.

Maybe he did. Maybe that was why he didn't plan to try and see her one last time… Maybe that was why he never intended to tell her how close the Final Death was…

She rubbed at the straw surface again, listening to the rumble of Pepita's purr as she pressed against the woman's back supportively. Imelda wished that she could at least see some improvement in him. She wished that there was some sign that Héctor was getting better, that he would survive. After almost a century apart and finally learning the truth and getting a chance to see what could be salvaged from what Ernesto shattered, it wasn't fair that it could all end without warning. The waiting and hoping left her on edge. If only there was a sign one way or another…

Imelda didn't know if she could forgive him for leaving, but it didn't break her. She cracked and chipped, but came out stronger. Harder. Like a diamond. She endured and so did her family. But while a diamond was harder than any other stone, it came at the cost of being brittle. Nothing could scratch the surface, but a hammer could shatter it. And she wasn't certain she could endure losing him a second time, especially when she had a hand in his fate.

"I suppose I'm not doing a very good job at taking my mind off things," she murmured. "But I don't know what will happen if you don't survive. Two days back and you've turned everything upside down."

She glanced up towards the balcony. It was too bright outside, but she could almost convince herself that she could see some of the glow through the glass up there. And even if that unnatural golden-orange light meant he remained on the verge of the Final Death, it also meant that Héctor hadn't completely faded away yet.

The same quiet words that she used to whisper as a young woman echoed through her skull even if they didn't reach her mouth. Almost like a familiar song with a similarly familiar and gentle refrain weaving through it.

_I want you. I miss you. I love you. Please come home._

"Please come back, Héctor," she said softly. "Please come back."

But it wasn't up to him. It had never been up to him. Héctor was as powerless as she was.

* * *

The rickety and rotting walkway wobbled with each step. Victoria fully expected it to collapse into splinters at any second. The creak and groan of the straining wood covered up the sounds of far-too-distant pedestrian traffic. They were far from where they belonged. Even the buildings they passed on the way were in serious disrepair. They were so far off the beaten trail that they were about to walk off the edge. Literally.

The walkway ended suddenly, causing her to almost think there was nothing but a sheer drop before they eventually spotted the way down. Victoria and Rosita exchanged looks at the sight. The way to the ground didn't look any more stable than the walkway itself. But it was either that or taking their chances by jumping. After all, it wasn't like the fall would _kill_ them. But the rocks and dark water below didn't look like a particularly comfortable landing.

Nothing about this felt comfortable. Even as Victoria followed Tía Rosita down, she could tell how far away they were from the more populated corners of the city. Chatting voices, the calls of alebrijes, and even the trolley were muffled by the distance. They just kept wandering deeper and deeper into the depths. No one came this way if they had the choice.

As soon as her well-crafted Rivera shoes stepped on solid ground once more, Victoria glanced around and tried to take in their gloomy surroundings. Only a little sunlight streamed down to reach them, the tall buildings blocking it and casting everything into shadows. Ancient rough stone of the older foundation marked the entrance, bearing the graffiti of a skeletal figure with bright wings falling from the sky. Further ahead, past wooden planks serving as bridges and paths across the water, she could make out sooty buildings slapped together by bits and pieces. Rubbish like crushed soda cans, shattered tequila bottles, shredded candy wrappers, and random scraps she couldn't identify were all too common. And the smell of wood smoke and dust hung in the air.

It was a place for the discarded and unwanted. Being here sent a chill down Victoria's spine. And yet this was where Héctor probably spent the last few years.

"This was your idea, Tía Rosita. What do we do next?" she asked, keeping her voice quiet for some reason.

Hesitating briefly, Rosita's expression turned stubborn and she said, "We start looking."

At first, the quiet and shadowy place seemed abandoned. The closest of the ramshackle houses looked empty; the broken windows were dark and ominous. But as they stepped further and further into Shantytown, Victoria started catching glimpses of other skeletons in the gloom.

They wore old clothes, the colors washed out and the edges fraying. And most of them were barefoot or their feet were wrapped in rags if they were apparently feeling ambitious. Their movements were reminiscent of a marionette, their joints both too loose and too jerky. They lacked the fluidity of motion that people normally possessed. And their bones were dulled from the white they should have been.

The traits were similar to what she'd witnessed with Héctor, though the symptoms weren't quite as severe. They weren't fading quite as much. Not yet. But they were gradually being forgotten too. And all of them were staring at Rosita and Victoria; they could see that the pair didn't quite belong.

"Looks like we have a few visitors," called one of the skeletons. " _Hola_."

Victoria glanced at the first person to speak to them in this place. Perched on the edge of a porch for one of the shacks, he held what looked like a violin cobbled together with part of a cabinet door, twine, coffee cans, and what might be barbed wire. She couldn't even guess what he used for the bow. Even if she spent her whole life avoiding music, she could still recognize what instrument that it was meant to be.

But even if he looked as chaotically-put-together as his violin, he wasn't a particularly bad looking man. He probably died close to Victoria's age and his bones were only a little dulled in color. And the swirling blue facial markings near his hairline and the clusters of purple dots below his eye sockets like freckles made him appear just as friendly as his greeting. It was only the unraveling gray shirt and bare feet that revealed his background as someone with no family to visit in the living world.

"What's a couple of pretty _señoritas_ like you doing here?" he continued, tilting his head. Then he gave them a sympathetic look. "Was it the marigold bridge? Were you unable to cross this year? That's never an easy thing to face."

"No, that's not why we're here," Victoria said, shifting uneasily.

"Then what can Tío Carlos do for you?" asked the musician, drawing the bow across the so-called strings and producing a squawk.

Wincing slightly at the jarring sound, Rosita said, "We're here about Héctor."

That produced an immediate reaction. The calm and curious mood shifted. The various skeletons scattered around exchanged looks, a hint of sadness creeping into their expressions that wasn't there before. They all clearly recognized the name. Carlos closed his eyes and shook his head slightly as he tuned his improvised instrument.

"Cousin Héctor?" another man said, though Victoria couldn't spot who. "You're here about…"

"I'll talk to them," said another skeleton, an older woman wrapped in a threadbare green dress to match the vine-like facial markings along her cheekbones. She gestured towards a collection of wooden crates. "Come along then. Come sit with Tía Gabriela for a while. We don't get much company here."

Not knowing what else to do, Victoria and Rosita let her guide them over. The smaller crates quickly served as improvised chairs while the larger one was treated as a table. Gabriela set a trio of shot glasses on the wooden surface and pulled out a nearly-empty tequila bottle. She poured out the last few dribbled of liquid and passed the glasses around.

Uncertain what to make of the show of hospitality, Victoria said, "I didn't know Héctor had any cousins."

"He does in a way. When you have no one else, we have to be each other's family. Down here, everyone is a _primo_ or a _tía_ or so on. We all called him Cousin Héctor and they call me Tía Gabriela because everyone deserves family, even when we're all being forgotten by those who are still alive."

There was something both heart-warming and heart-breaking about the sentiment. But Victoria could at least admit that it was nice that he wasn't completely alone all this time. Even if she wasn't certain what she thought of the man, he deserved some type of companionship. A makeshift family of those with no one else was better than spending all those decades with no one.

But Gabriela wasn't finished speaking. She rolled the shot glass between her hands as she continued.

"But if you're looking for him, I'm afraid that you won't find him. No one has seen him since _Día de Muertos_. That's a rough time of the year for us. A time where the living purposefully try to remember the dead, digging through memory and reminiscing with each other about those who have died. And if they don't recall us when they specifically try, they usually give up any attempt to hold onto that memory." Gabriela went ahead and drank her portion of the tequila in one swift motion. "We knew. Just like with Chicharrón, Chelo, and the girls the other night. We knew what happened. He didn't come back yesterday or today because it finally happened."

Realizing what Gabriela must have meant, Rosita interrupted, "Oh, no, I'm so sorry. We've given you the wrong impression. We're not looking for Héctor. And he isn't gone. He's just unconscious. We have him back at our house right now."

That seemed to stun Gabriela to silence and set off the eavesdropping skeletons whispering. They stared at Victoria and Rosita with increased curiosity, but couldn't hide their relief from the news. Even if their surroundings remained just as shadowy as before, the mood felt far lighter. They'd know how close he was to the Final Death that night. How could they have missed the signs? But hearing the news of his continued survival cheered them up instantly.

Cackling quietly, Gabriela shook her head and muttered, "That boy. He's always been good at wiggling out of trouble. And into it. No matter what happens, Cousin Héctor keeps trying and keeps holding on. I should have known he'd find a way to slip out of the Final Death for a little longer."

"He's already hung on longer than anyone would have guessed," called Carlos, trying his makeshift instrument again and producing a smoother sound. He stood up from his perch and started walking closer to them. "Most of us don't immediately end up here our first year. And those that do rarely survive long."

"You're still playing a bit sharp, Tío Carlos," another skeleton said.

"What do you expect from barbed wire, _primo_?" shouted back Carlos, setting off a round of laughter from most of the growing group of curious bystanders.

There was a jovial feeling to the conversation, even with the darker undercurrent. It wasn't what Victoria expected. Even with the brief glimpse of Shantytown she caught that night when Pepita was tracking Miguel, leading them towards this place before she caught a fresher trail taking them back towards the city, she'd imagined the people here as being so different. Somehow it both made Victoria feel more comfortable with these people and left her sad.

They seemed like such nice people. Friendly, welcoming, and even teasing each other like a family would. They deserved better than this. They deserved better than dwelling in this dim and abandoned place, scrabbling for whatever belongings they could and waiting for the Final Death.

"Once the living no longer bother putting our _fotos_ on the _ofrendas_ , it is only a matter of time before we're forgotten. Usually within a generation," said Gabriela. "Most of us are gone within twenty years of coming down here. Tío Chicharrón somehow managed to hold on for fifty or sixty years, not counting his time when he was properly remembered. But Cousin Héctor… He's been here almost since his death, over ninety years ago. Longer than any of us." She set her shot glass down on the crate, no longer toying with it in her hands. "And when we last saw him… I didn't expect him to make it through the night."

"He almost didn't," Rosita said quietly, staring down at her own glass in her hands.

Glancing at the pair, Gabriela said, "Well, that was foolish of me. I forgot to ask for your names and why Cousin Héctor is at your home in the first place."

"Oh, how silly of me. Where are my manners? My name is Rosita Rivera," she said without hesitation.

Following her _tía's_ example, Victoria said, "And I am her niece, Victoria Rivera. As for why Héctor is staying with us, that's a bit more complicated."

"Almost a century's worth of complicated," Rosita said.

"You see, neither of us ever met the man before _Día de Muertos_ ," continued Victoria, still uncomfortable with the topic, "but there's a connection between us and Héctor… He is my grandfather."

The words made Victoria pause thoughtfully. This was the first time she'd said it out loud, that the man was her grandfather. She'd known it since that night when he tumbled off Pepita's back with Miguel and Mamá Imelda. But she never actually said it. Victoria didn't even know what she was supposed to call him. Abuelito? Papá Héctor?

The others were not quite as subtle in their reactions. Gabriela's face split into a bright grin as she reached across the makeshift table, grabbing Victoria and Rosita's hands. Excited cheers and cries rang out, practically echoing across the still water. The skeletons crowded closer, patting on shoulders and arms. Victoria stiffened, not certain how to react to what was happening. It made her feel like her head was nearly spinning. It was too abrupt, overwhelming, and… welcoming.

"Does that mean you're Coco's little girl?" asked Carlos.

"You know about her?" Rosita asked.

Chuckling good-naturedly, Gabriela said, "That boy is many things, but subtle isn't one of them. And we all know why he spends every _Día de Muertos_ at the Marigold Grand Central Station, trying everything possible to cross the bridge and never giving up. At one point or another, we've all heard about his Coco."

"Especially around the _Día de Muertos_ ," added Carlos. "A little before that night or after another failure, it's easy to get him talking about his daughter. Because around then, she's the only thing on his mind."

A small smile twitched on Victoria's face. She couldn't help it. After a lifetime believing that he didn't care enough about his family, it was surprising and nice hearing that Héctor kept thinking about his daughter after so long. And that he talked about her enough that everyone knew about Coco.

"Look at that. The pretty _señorita_ is smiling," teased Carlos gently. "Luckily, you don't take after Cousin Héctor's looks. Your grandmother must be as lovely as he always said."

And that made Rosita chuckle and give Victoria a meaningful look, prompting her to roll her eyes. Her _tía_ was probably already imaging the two of them dating. She was such a romantic and tried to set up Victoria a few times when they were both still alive. But very few young men were interested in courting such a serious _señorita_ with a vaguely intimidating grandmother ready with her _chancla_. And while some people might be willing to sacrifice music for a life with Mamá or Elena, Victoria wasn't enough of a catch to be worth it.

But that never stopped Rosita from trying. The woman might not have any interest in any of the men in Santa Cecilia for herself, but she wanted everyone else to find someone to love. But now she was just getting ridiculous. Only Tía Rosita would think that a _músico_ from Shantytown would be a good idea for a Rivera woman.

Smacking his arm, a young lady in a faded yellow dress scolded, "Don't be like that, Tío Carlos. You'll scare them off before we get to know Cousin Héctor's girls."

"Ow," he complained, not even trying to sound serious about it. " _Prima_ , why are you so cruel to your poor Tío Carlos like that? And do you think that anyone related to Cousin Héctor would run off that easily?"

"Oh, hush," said Gabriela. "Both of you behave yourselves. Stop teasing, Tío Carlos. And don't hit the foolish _músico_ , Prima Verónica. You're going to give these two a bad impression of us."

Quiet apologies were muttered, reminding Victoria so much of Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe when Mamá Imelda had to rein in their inventions a little. Carlos went back to tuning his improvised violin with a smile. This time, the sound produced was smooth and sweet. And beautiful. The sound was beautiful enough that Victoria wanted to hear more and yet she resisted, a lifetime of avoiding music causing guilt for even considering it.

"We came down here because we thought that since Héctor is staying at our house for a while, it might be nice to pick up a few of his things," said Rosita, finally steering the conversation back to their entire reason for coming down here.

"Don't know if you'll find much, but it's a kind thought," said Gabriela. She gestured at one of the clustered skeletons, the movement shifting her dress enough for Victoria to notice that part of her collarbone was taped together. "Primo Juan, you were acting pretty spry this morning. Show your Prima Victoria where Cousin Héctor stays." When she noticed her surprised expression, Gabriela explained, "If you're related to Cousin Héctor, then you're family."

Juan, a creaky skeleton with yellow and orange swirls that went across his forehead, gave her a smile and pulled Victoria back to her feet. Rosita seemed perfectly content to remain with the rest of the inhabitants of Shantytown. Victoria wouldn't be surprised if she planned to interrogate Carlos a bit more to see if her romantic matchmaking ideas had any merit. Or maybe she was just still tired from sitting up all night with Héctor.

Across the plank walkways, Victoria followed her guide past the various ramshackle houses. His gait wobbled as his joints seemed to pop in and out of place. He didn't seem to have any obvious injuries like Héctor did with his arm and leg, but he didn't seem completely stable with his movements either. His bones were just held together by weak and fading memories, leaving them loosely connected.

"So Cousin Héctor is _really_ all right?" he asked quietly after a few moments of walking.

Not wanting to lie, Victoria said, "He isn't _all right_ , but he hasn't experienced the Final Death. He's still with us."

"That's more than any of us expected," he said. "He's been fading a long time. For longer than I've been down here. I didn't think Tía Chelo would go before him." Juan gestured with a wobbly arm. "If he had anything other than the clothes on his back, it'll be in there. But anything he managed to get a hold of was either used in one of his attempts to cross the bridge or used to trade for favors for those attempts."

Victoria stared at the tiny shack for a moment, unable to believe that anyone would have called the place home. A slight shove could probably send it tumbling to the ground in pieces. And rather than a door, there was a blanket draped over the entrance. At first, she couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that Héctor could have been here for decades. Then she realized it wasn't really meant as a home; it was merely a place to sleep whenever he wasn't working on a way to cross the bridge.

She slipped inside and it was somehow more depressing. Other than a worn hammock and a blanket in the middle of unraveling, the only thing inside the small space was crumbled paper. Victoria unfolded a few of them and learned that they seemed to be dozens of half-finished schemes on how to get past security and across the marigold bridge. Some were clever, some were farfetched, and all of them were desperate. All in all, it painted a very different picture of the man than what she grew up with.

Even with a makeshift family in Shantytown, Héctor's thoughts always remained on those that he'd been separated from. Seeing his daughter was all that mattered to him. Mamá Imelda might have refused to let him near, but he wanted to at least see his little girl. Victoria could see the evidence of that all around her. Even if he thought she would never see him again and wouldn't remember her papá, Héctor wanted one final glimpse of Coco before the end.

This lonely and empty shack, filled with the desperate plans of a man with nothing else left, told her more about how much Héctor loved and missed his family than any words ever could.

Staring at the depressing little room a moment longer, Victoria had to admit that Juan was right. There was nothing here that she could spot that would be worth bring back.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked Juan as she slipped back out.

Hesitating a moment, Victoria admitted, "Not really. Honestly, I thought he would have a guitar in there."

"He used to play. They say that for decades, he would play a song quietly every night without fail. And if he couldn't play, he would at least sing the words. But that was a long time ago," said Juan. "He's mostly stopped the last several decades. Sometimes, when you get him _just_ drunk enough and catch him in the right emotional state, you can almost coax a song or two out of him. But mostly he's given up. It's about the only thing he's ever given up on. Music was important to him once. We've all noticed that. But I think it just reminds him too much of… I think it hurts him too much now."

They fell into silence for a few moments as they meandered their way back along the plank pathways. But the more solemn mood couldn't last long down here. Victoria was quickly learning that the people in Shantytown refused to dwell on the darkness.

"I hope Tío Carlos didn't bother you too much. He means well," said Juan. "And if you ask him to stop, he'll leave you alone. Promise."

"He wasn't that bad," she said evenly.

A bit of a smile tugging at his mouth, he continued, "Of course, if someone ever was interested in him, Tío Carlos is actually a very nice person. And currently unattached to anyone."

"What? Not planning to ask me for yourself?" said Victoria dryly.

"While you're very lovely, I'm not interested in chasing any _señoritas_ ," he said as they drew near the gathered crowd again. "Not even one of Cousin Héctor's girls."

Victoria could hear a warm and infectious sound that seemed to weave around them, making her breath catch in her ribcage. Even as a lifetime of habit ordered her to ignore and block it out, her head turned to follow it back to its source. Somehow the makeshift violin in Carlos' hands produced something beautiful and melodic. Something that left her instinctively swaying slightly on her feet.

She wasn't supposed to listen. This was music and the Rivera family wanted nothing to do with it. But Mamá Imelda sang. She sang that night on stage and it was beautiful and breathtaking. And if Mamá Imelda could sing, then maybe Victoria could let the song wash over her for the moment. Maybe she could listen without a lifetime of guilt over a small act of rebellion.

Clearly unconcerned about the _músico_ performing close by, Rosita had apparently succumbed to her nurturing nature while Victoria was gone. She was currently tugging and rearranging the rags wrapped around Gabriela's feet, the efforts earning a bemused look from Gabriela.

"This really doesn't help you much," said Rosita. "No support, no protection, no warmth…"

"It keeps me from misplacing my metatarsals again," Gabriela said "That's better than nothing."

No. This wouldn't do. Something in Victoria refused to accept this situation. All these friendly and welcoming people just trying to scrape by, waiting for the Final Death while having absolutely nothing and yet willing to share with complete strangers, deserved better. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. But there wasn't anything they could do to change it.

Actually, that wasn't true. She was a Rivera. And she liked practical courses of action, even if they were rather small in the grand scheme of things.

Digging into the pockets of her leather apron, Victoria pulled out a tape measurer, a small notepad, and a pencil. It wouldn't be the most accurate method, but it would give them a starting point.

"Tía Rosita," she said, catching her attention. "Let's get everyone lined up and start taking measurements. We have a lot of work to do."

There was a brief flicker of confusion, but Rosita figured out her intentions quickly. Her face erupted into a bright smile as she started digging into her own leather apron.

"And what are you two _señoritas_ up to now?" asked Carlos, his music not even pausing.

"Taking measurements," Rosita said cheerfully, already working on Gabriela's foot since she already had a hold of it.

Somehow looking even more bemused than before, Gabriela asked, "Oh? And what sort of measurements are you interested in?"

"We want the shoes to fit," said Victoria, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "No Rivera shoemaker would ever put a pair on someone that didn't fit them perfectly. That's almost as much of a disgrace as letting our family run around barefoot for so long." She gave them a stern look, making certain that the increasingly-confused skeletons knew that there would be no arguing the point. "You wouldn't want someone saying that we aren't proper shoemakers. Right, Tía Gabriela?"

"Family comes first," Rosita added. "And family always takes care of each other."

It took a moment, but Gabriela gave Victoria a smile and a nod.

" _Gracias_ , my sweet _primas_ ," she said in a voice that only wavered a little. "Though I wouldn't want you to spend too much time working on shoes that may only be worn for a short time…"

"Everyone needs a pair of good and sturdy shoes. _Everyone_ ," said Victoria firmly. Then, turning back towards the rest of the inhabitants of Shantytown, she added, "And I was serious when I said we need everyone to line up. Don't you try and make us guess on your sizes. All of you are getting proper Rivera shoes even if we have to yank your leg off to get the measurements."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Battuto" is a term used specifically when playing a string instrument, like a violin. It indicates to strike the strings with the bow. Obviously it'll produce a different sound than just pulling the bow along the strings like normal.


	7. Da Capo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the movie is finally out on DVD, Blu-Ray, and so on, which means I got to watch all the bonus stuff. Which was fun. Some of the deleted scenes were especially entertaining. But I can definitely understand why many of them were deleted. Especially the one where the living Rivera family explained that they were shoemakers and anti-music… in a song. I think the irony was too great.

"You're _really_ going to the _biblioteca_?" asked Rosa, trying to keep close to him while the surge of children rushing out of the school at the sound of a bell kept trying to drive the pair apart.

"I need a couple books for a project," Miguel said with a shrug and his most charming grin. "And my parents said I could go if I let them know. So… could you tell them for me?"

Giving him a suspicious look, she asked, "It is for a school project, right?"

"Of course," he lied, struggling to keep his voice from going squeaky. "Why else would I want to read a bunch of boring books? And I promise I won't be too long. So could you please tell them where I'm going? I promise I'll owe you. Anything you want. I'll even help you babysit Benny and Manny next time."

Miguel silently begged his _prima_ to accept. Otherwise he would have to go home first and then do a lot of backtracking. It would be faster and easier to go straight to the _biblioteca_. And he needed to go. He had several things to accomplish with his rudimentary plan. And the best place to start would be at the _biblioteca_.

Shaking her head tiredly, Rosa said, "Fine. But—"

Miguel didn't wait any longer, taking off like lightning. He slipped into his more effective running style, speeding through the streets and eventually rounding on the old building. It had been expanded, repurposed, and partially rebuilt multiple times, giving it an asymmetrical nature. But it remained sturdy. He wouldn't be surprised if it would eventually outlast the entire Rivera family.

Stepping inside, the smell of dusty old books and the heavy silence practically wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Normally, Miguel would be bored out of his mind in this place. The shelves of books, the old newspaper clippings tucked away in binders, partially-faded records hidden in locked-up archives, and other dry collections of papers weren't exactly the most thrilling things for a young boy. And the silence frustrated a soul desperate for music.

But to help Papá Héctor and to expose Ernesto de la Cruz, this was the perfect place to be.

Miguel was already trying to help as much as he could. Getting Mamá Coco to tell him and their family was just the start. At school, they were supposed to discuss _Día de Muertos_ and he managed to tell them about Papá Héctor. He couldn't tell the other kids about Ernesto being a fraud or a murderer, but he could tell them a few of Mamá Coco's stories. Just enough to make them interested and for them to remember Héctor. He could always tell them more later. But for now, it was at least _something_.

"Can I help you?" asked a librarian, startling Miguel out of his thoughts.

The woman instantly reminded him a bit of Tía Victoria, her hair pulled up and her glasses perched on her nose. But there was more gray in her hair. She wasn't as old as Abuelita though. And she seemed friendly, her smile honest and welcoming.

" _Sí_ ," he said quickly. "I need a few things. Can you help me pick out a few books about Señor Ernesto de la Cruz? Mostly about his early years, before he became famous? But nothing he wrote himself. Someone else who did the research and wrote it."

Smiling at him, the woman adjusted her glasses and asked, "Working on a school project on the local celebrity?"

"Something like that," he said, trying not to grit his teeth at how beloved the man still was. "But I need the _really_ thick books with lots of details about de la Cruz when he lived here and when he first started touring. Lots of details. The more details and proof, the better. Oh, and I need something that gives the dates for when he's supposed to have written his different songs."

"So no autobiographies, but well-researched and heavily-documented biographies." Nodding thoughtfully, she said, "I have a few ideas. They might be a bit dry and difficult for you to read through."

"I'll manage. And… and my teacher wants us to… to make sure the project has a balanced viewpoint or something," Miguel continued, improvising as best he could. "Do you have any books about conspiracy theories to do with him?"

"A bit much for school work, don't you think? Are you one of those people who thinks the bell incident wasn't an accident?" asked the librarian, leading him through the shelves.

"No, nothing like that. Other stuff. About the early years and his music. _Someone_ must have come up with some crazy theories about him."

Pulling a couple thick books down, she said, "I'll have to do a little looking, but there might be something. But if you really want a variety of sources, I can check the archive for you. We have some birth records, censuses, and so on from the right time period. We kind of ended up as general storage at one point decades ago and ended up inheriting them. There might be something that will really impress your teacher in there. I can't loan out the originals, but I can make copies for you."

Grinning brightly, Miguel said, "That would be great. _Gracias_. Anything you could find about him would be perfect."

" _De nada_. I'm happy to help. This is the most interesting thing I've done all month. Anything else I can do for you?" she said.

Miguel set his backpack down and opened it. He tried to be careful with it when he borrowed it that morning, far more careful than he'd been on _Día de Muertos_. He'd tucked it between the pages of his textbook so that it wouldn't get crushed or torn again. But he needed to do this before his family replaced the broken frame. Otherwise he would have to give them an explanation on why he needed to take it.

"I really need to copy this," said Miguel, holding up the repaired family portrait. "It's the only _foto_ we have Héctor, my great-great-grandfather. He was a musician when my Mamá Coco was a little girl. She said that he used to play in Santa Cecilia and people would ask him to perform at their weddings and so on because he was so talented. He was amazing."

Shifting the books in her arms, the librarian took the _foto_. She stared at the image of Mamá Imelda, Mamá Coco as a child, and the newly-restored Papá Héctor for a moment. He could tell that she recognized the guitar, just like Miguel did the moment he saw it. And he could definitely tell that she was starting to wonder about his book requests and whether they connected to the _foto_. But she didn't ask. Not yet. She simply turned back towards Miguel with a gentle expression.

"We _do_ have a color copier, but there's a small fee to use it," she said. "If I make copies of anything from the archives, I can probably let that slide. But if you want this _foto_ copied, I have to charge you for it."

Miguel dug into his pocket, pulling out a small fistful of money. All the money he'd saved secretly to buy Ernesto de la Cruz merchandise before he learned the truth, his allowance, and even all the coins he'd found in different random places was poured into the surprised librarian's hand. He knew it wasn't really that much, but it was all he could scrounge together.

"How many copies can I buy with this?" he asked. "I need as many as possible. Just in case."

* * *

When she returned to the workshop carrying the tattered straw hat in her arms, Imelda's brothers were wise enough not to comment. They just tucked away whatever project that they'd been trying to stealthily work on in her absence and turned their attention back to the waiting order. And while it wasn't her best work, Imelda managed to finish the shoes by the end of the day. She just needed to take her time and double-check every step so she didn't repeat her earlier amateur mistakes. And if her gaze drifted to Héctor's hat, she didn't have to admit it.

Imelda planned to go check on him as soon as possible. As they locked up the workshop for the evening, her thoughts were already by his side. But as she and her brothers started across the courtyard, Rosita and Victoria finally wandered in from the street. They both looked worn out, though Rosita certainly looked worse. Imelda hadn't even realized they were still out so late.

"Did you finish your errands?" she asked.

" _Sí_ ," said Rosita, fighting back a yawn. "Sorry, Mamá Imelda. I need to get some sleep before dinner."

Nodding, she gestured to her and Rosita hurried inside. She deserved a chance to get some sleep. They _all_ needed some rest, but Imelda suspected she wouldn't sleep any better than the night before.

"We went to where Héctor has been staying," said Victoria quietly, crossing her arms. "His home."

"How would you know where that would be?" Oscar asked.

Felipe continued, "It isn't like he told us his address."

"Or that we ever bothered to ask."

"Though maybe we really should have."

"It wasn't hard. There's only one place it could be. As Tía Rosita pointed out, where else would you find someone on the brink of being forgotten? He's been staying in Shantytown for decades."

Imelda stiffened briefly, staring at her granddaughter. She'd suspected as much. She had ever since it truly hit her that night, that he was being forgotten, and she actually bothered to consider the implications. She didn't expect Rosita and Victoria to go down there though. No one ever went down to Shantytown unless they had no choice.

"The people down there thought Héctor had disappeared and were relieved to hear that he hasn't experienced the Final Death," Victoria continued, not mentioning the "yet" that they all knew dangled above that sentence. "But his home… There wasn't much. All we could find was evidence of how much he wanted to get across the marigold bridge. How much he wanted to get home. There were dozens of plans. Nothing else. That was literally all he had, Mamá Imelda." She adjusted her glasses. "The trip wasn't what we originally intended, but it was quite educational. And we set up a pallet in your office before we left. We thought you might like having somewhere to sleep that's a little more permanent than Tía Rosita's room."

She didn't know what else to say or do in response except to nod and say, " _Gracias_ , _míja_." She looked down at the hat in her grip and added, "That was very thoughtful."

"Tía Rosita came up with the idea," said Victoria as the rest of them stepped into the house.

Just as Imelda suspected, she felt herself pulled up the stairs by her worried thoughts like a thread pulled by a needle. She didn't pause until she reached the doorway to her room. Julio instantly stood up when he saw her. Imelda gave her son-in-law a brief nod of acknowledgement, but her focus was drawn to the bed like always.

Héctor remained perfectly still and silent. An optimistic hope whispered that _maybe_ the light seemed a little dimmer than before, _maybe_ he looked a little less fragile. But if that was true, it was only slightly. It was too subtle for her to be certain. And Imelda might be seeing what she wanted. She wanted some tangible evidence of improvement and might be imagining it.

She set his hat on the handle of her wardrobe, letting it hang there. Then Imelda sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. Still too cool to the touch, too fragile, and empty of all signs of life. Héctor might be physically with them, but he remained a hollow shell. The spark, the energy, and the emotion that made the man who he was wasn't there.

"I'm sorry, Mamá Imelda," Julio said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "There's been no changes so far."

"I know," said Imelda, carefully setting Héctor's hand back on the quilt. "Thank you for sitting with him all day."

"It was no trouble. Would you like me to sit with him a little longer?"

She shook her head and said, "No, you deserve a break. I can stay here for a while. Go and check on your daughter downstairs. It's been a long day for everyone. We can work out plans for dinner later."

"Of course," he said. "I'll see what Victoria has been up to today. I heard her and Rosita earlier, but they left a while ago."

He slipped out and walked down the stairs, leaving Imelda alone with Héctor. She stared at him, trying to convince herself that the golden-orange light emitting from his bones was dimmer. She wanted any sign of improvement. She wanted proof that he was getting better. Imelda knew it was probably her imagination and that she was scrambling for any possibility. She knew that any improvement that she believed she saw was merely stubborn hope and nothing more.

But she needed this hope. And he needed her to believe in him. This time, she needed to believe that Héctor would make it back. She couldn't give up on him again.

* * *

They kept pulling, drawing him back to Before. They remembered him and their memories kept dragging him back. Slow and constant. Never letting go.

And as he was drawn back the way that he'd come, as he became gradually more real, his own memories started to resurface. At least, they might be his memories. But they were all jumbled and confusing. He couldn't seem to keep the past and present separated. Everything kept melting together in a chaotic mixture—

— _His body ached, his bones battered as he tried to pull himself together after being thrown in a_ cenote _onto the stones below. He could barely concentrate. Horror, anger, and betrayed hurt swirled around (_ _ **it couldn't be true, we were friends, I just wanted to go home**_ _) as his mind rebelled against the truth. But a splash and then a shout pulled him stumbling from the shadows._

 _Soaking wet and terrified, the boy **(the**_ _ **living boy, Chamaco** )_ _practically tackled him in a desperate hug before he could properly register the boy's presence **(why**_ _ **was he here too, he couldn't be here, he was supposed to be sent home** )_ _. Frantic words spilled out of the boy about how that musician left him to this fate and his regrets over his final harsh words to his family. He pulled the boy **(h**_ _ **e's just a child, a scared and lost child** )_ _back into the hug and held the child close, trying to reassure Chamaco that it wasn't his fault **(how**_ _ **could that man toss away this precious boy, he loved the musician without even knowing him, how could that man leave Chamaco to die, the man didn't deserve this family, I found Chamaco first anyway** )_ _and that it would be all right._

 _They were both trapped, but there had to be a way **(there's**_ _ **hope, there's always hope, hope for both of us** )_ _to get the boy home in time. Chamaco would be all right._

 _And then he felt something cold and sharp wash over him (_ _ **no, not yet, I can't**_ _) and his breathing hitched. He could barely (_ _ **don't fall on Chamaco, don't hurt him, move, move**_ _) push himself away before he lost complete control of his shaking limbs. He stumbled and fell back onto the stones, lost in golden light that tried to engulf him as he tried (_ _ **it hurts, hold on, it'll pass, but it hurts**_ _) to keep himself together. His strength fell away and the brief episode passed as suddenly as it struck, leaving him weak and sore. And his final stubborn and desperate hope crumbled_ —

— _He held the tiny baby that was placed in his arms, her size and delicateness leaving him almost too scared to move or breathe. Her crying was finally beginning to ease off. Still red-faced and wrinkled (_ _ **so beautiful, so precious,**_ **míja** _), she was finally here. From her tiny fingers and toes to the faintest wisps of dark hair on her head, he couldn't stop staring at this perfect miracle. He could scarcely believe that she was real. And he could barely believe how much he already loved her._

 _He looked up at the young woman **(**_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** ) _lying exhausted in the bed. Shaking with relief from the long labor finally at an end, soaked with sweat that plastered her hair to her head, and completely worn out, she was breath-takingly beautiful in every way. She smiled weakly and reached up to them, prompting him to sit next to his wife. He leaned over so they could both hold the baby together._

 _He kissed his wife's sweat-soaked temple (_ _ **always beautiful, always awe-inspiring, I couldn't love her more if I tried**_ _) and murmured sweet words to both of them. His family. This was his family. He never thought he would have this (_ _ **never alone, never again, never let them go**_ _) and he couldn't be happier. Everything was perfect_ —

— _The spontaneous performance with whatever instruments that they could scrounge together around Shantytown broke off abruptly as Tía collapsed, golden light (_ _ **no, no, it can't be**_ _) flashing across her body. He moved quickly, almost instantly reaching her side and trying to help her up. The others followed with concerned expressions, carefully settling her on the barrel to let her rest. But Tía looked resigned._

 _He hadn't seen it in person before, but he'd heard enough **(not**_ _ **fair, can't stop it, it'll be me someday** )_ _to know this was the Final Death. Everyone in Shantytown knew plenty about it, probably more than anyone else in the Land of the Dead since it came for them so often. While they could resist for a little while once the golden light started flaring up from their bones, it wasn't easy and it wouldn't last long. They couldn't stop the inevitable. They would run out of strength as the spasms and flashes grew closer together until they became nearly constant. And each episode grew more intense and painful until their bodies grew numb from exhaustion **(a**_ _**kindness, dying the first time was painful enough** )_ _and they eventually succumbed._

 _But Tía wouldn't fight the inevitable (_ _ **no, why, why do I keep losing everyone** )_ _when those alive had forgotten her. She wanted to depart on her own terms. She smiled at them, all the younger souls she'd helped and comforted in her time down there. She'd welcomed him when he first wandered down, heartbroken_ _**(I want to go home, I want to see my girls, please, I need to see them**_ _) and barely able to comprehend that they wouldn't let him cross the bridge. Tía helped him so much (_ _ **family, not my original family, not my wife or**_ **míja** _ **or the man who was like a brother, but she was family anyway**_ _) and now she was dying. And there was nothing that they could do to help._

 _She closed her eyes, still smiling (_ _ **how was she so content, how could she be at peace, it wasn't fair, it was too soon**_ _) as the golden-orange light washed over her. And she allowed it. Tía let her bones dissolve (_ _ **it's not supposed to hurt as much if you don't fight it**_ _) into dust and drift away_ —

— _Standing on the stage, she (_ **mi amor, mi vida, me alma** _) managed to shake off the worst of her stage fright as security started edging towards her. As soon as she sang the first few words of her favorite song, the sound sent of shiver of familiar awe through his tired bones (_ _ **I missed this, I missed her, I almost never heard her sing again**_ _) and he could almost pretend that no time had passed. She was still so beautiful and warm._

 _And then Chamaco pushed a guitar into his hands and he was playing before he could think. She looked surprised at first until she saw him smiling encouragingly from the wings, when she realized that the music was his. That he was supporting and helping her the only way that he could. Holding the photograph tight in her hands, she smiled at him. Just like she used to so long ago_ —

— _He played energetically, trying to coax a grin out of the_ señorita _(_ _ **stubborn, strong-willed, bright, smart, warm**_ _) as her younger brothers grinned mischievously. His best friend said he was crazy, but he couldn't resist (_ _ **I love her, I already love her with all my heart**_ _) spending time around her. Her family would never consider him more than just some foolish boy with no future, but she didn't immediately chase him off the moment she saw his face. Only occasionally. That was more than most people could claim; she was not one to suffer the presence of fools. Except for possibly him. Half the time, she would tolerate his company._

 _When his current song didn't get the reaction he wanted, he changed to another. This time, she paused. There was a sparkle in her eyes ( **i**_ _ **nterested, warm, excited** )_ _as the music picked up. His fingers danced across the strings with practiced ease as he smiled at her. And as he reached the chorus, she stopped resisting._

 _She started quietly and hesitant, a soft song that slipped past her lips. But it built as she gained confidence (_ _ **such a beautiful voice, filled with warmth and love, I can't believe I get to hear it**_ _) and soon she was matching him completely. His voice joined in, the song becoming a duet. But he let her lead, letting her voice direct the song while he supported her. He would be perfectly content to remain in this moment for as long as possible, listening to her sing_ —

— _Her face was a skull with colorful markings, streaks of gray ran through her dark hair, and she wore a heavy leather apron over her dress that he would have never imagined on her, but he still recognized her instantly. She looked so stern and rigid now, but it was her. And he couldn't hide how much he missed her (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) after all this time._

 _But the warm and comforting fire that he remembered in her eyes was replaced with a volatile and raging inferno. She yelled at him (_ _ **too much pain in her face, too much pain in her fury**_ _), snarling accusations (_ _ **how could she think that, what did I do to shatter her trust, how much must I have hurt her to break her like this** _ _) and flinging the details of her harsh life (_ _ **I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt her, I never wanted to hurt her**_ _) back in his face. And every sharp word cut into him like a knife._

_People were staring. She didn't care. And he couldn't respond._

_It wasn't just anger. It was pain, sorrow, frustration, and hate. He did this. He did this to her. And he couldn't find a single word (_ _ **I'm sorry, I should have never left, I want you, I miss you, I love you, I want to come home, I'm sorry**_ _) that could make things right. So he stood mutely as she (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) verbally tore him to shreds_ —

—He couldn't tell what was real or memory. He couldn't even drag up all the details in the jumbled mess. Names continued to slip away, even his own. Conversations were vague, feelings instead of exact words. And he couldn't tell which thoughts and emotions were old and which were current. Everything blurred together in a confusing mixture.

But he kept feeling more and more real. More and more solid. They kept pulling him back with their memories.

And as he gradually grew closer, pain began to return—

— _Thankful to be back on solid ground rather than clinging to the fierce alebrije high above the city, he held his hat in front of his chest as the beautiful woman (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) turned her sharp words towards him. But before she could truly start tearing his long-absent heart to pieces, Chamaco (_ **míjo** _ **, my boy, my family**_ _) placed himself between them._

 _The boy defended him, staring down decades of anger without hesitation and refusing to back down. Chamaco asked her to help retrieve the stolen photograph, to help him get home. As she reminded them that he left_ ** _(I'm sorry, I should have stayed, I should have listened_ ),** _Chamaco retorted that he tried to return and that he was murdered for that choice. That his best friend **(how**_ _**could he, why, was fame worth my life** )_ _killed him for those songs._

 _And when he confirmed the boy's words, he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes that she quickly hid behind her anger. She was still upset and still hurt. He tried to speak to her **(she's**_ _**listening to me, I can apologize finally** )_ _and took a step towards her._

 _But the sharp, cold, and intense sensation **(not**_ _**again, it hurts, it's worse, make it stop** )_ _swept over him again in a golden light ( **hold**_ _**on, not yet, I can't let go yet** )_ _and he crumbled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. His breath caught in his ribcage as his body briefly spasmed. As the glow faded from his bones, leaving him on his hands and knees and too wobbly to get back up yet **(I'm**_ _**running out of time** )_ _, the boy knelt beside him with a worried expression—_

— _The fast and energetic music rang through him as he slipped into the beat naturally, dancing on the stage (_ _ **crazy dog, I wasn't ready, it's been too long**_ _) as Chamaco played the familiar song. It gave him the strength that he thought was beyond him (_ _ **running out of time, I need to get the boy home soon**_ _) and reminded him how much he missed performing. The boy (_ _ **so talented, so bright, so determined, so wonderful**_ _) moved in sync to his quick and improvised routine with minimal communication and he adapted to Chamaco's growing confidence._

 _It was like they'd performed together a thousand times (_ _ **like me and my best friend when I was alive, familiar and fun**_ _) rather than being the first time the boy stood before an audience. And Chamaco's love for the music shone brightly in his eyes and echoed with every note. Even with everything that was at stake, he let himself enjoy the moment. He let the music and the boy bring an honest smile to his face_ —

— _He set the guitar down just in time to catch her (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) in his arms, laughing brightly from the thrill of her performance and hugging him. He was startled and he didn't have much energy left, but he managed to hold her (_ _ **I missed this, I missed her**_ _) and spun her around in the brief embrace. And then they realized what they were doing, pulling apart and acting as bashful as shy teenagers. Cautious and gentle words were exchanged until Chamaco interrupted._

 _They had the_ foto _and they needed to send the boy home. And then Chamaco would put it on the_ ofrenda _(_ _ **there was still time, get the alebrije to fly me to the bridge, I can run across, doesn't matter if I can't return before dawn breaks, I'll see**_ **míja,** _ **just a glimpse, after that doesn't matter, the Final Death can come**_ _) and he could finally get home._

 _He felt calm. It's all right. Everything would be all right. He heard her sing and saw her smile one last time. Chamaco would be safe and home. And he would get one last look at his daughter **(for**_ _ **real, not just the photograph, but even seeing the** _ **foto** _**of** _ **míja** _**after so long was a blessing, I'd almost forgot her face, I didn't mean to, it's been so long, I just want to see my daughter** )_ _before the Final Death took him._

 _As his wife extended the glowing petal towards Chamaco (_ **míjo** _ **, he's family**_ _), he knew it would be all right now_ —

— _He ran as fast as his short legs would carry him, laughing as the angry farmer chasing them fell behind. They were both going to be in so much trouble when they got back_ _to_ Orfanato de la Cruz, _but it was worth it. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face._

 _He followed behind the older boy **(my**_ _**best friend, my only family** )_ _as they ran through the dusty streets. Those who saw them rolled their eyes and shook their heads. The two of them were already known as troublemakers, but most of the people saw their mischief as harmless fun and mildly entertaining at times._

_There was usually a plan, a goal in mind that his friend would explain in excited detail. It would be fun, they would get something nice out of it, or it would make their lives better. Or, more and more frequently, it would make people like them more. His friend thrived on praise and would seek it out eagerly._

_It was part of the reason why the older boy was now carrying the angry farmer's old guitar as they ran, the one the man barely touched anymore and probably wouldn't have missed if the man didn't spot them "borrowing" it. Well, the man spotted him rather than both of them. Since he was smaller and the older boy was too big to slip inside as easily, it made more sense for him to be the one to sneak in and grab it._

_His friend didn't know how to play yet, not having been friendly enough to the old man **(kind,**_ _ **cared about the children of Santa Cecilia, his own children long gone, generous, encouraging** )_ _that lived near the church. He'd managed to_ _bargain a few lessons and a chance to practice on the old man's prized instrument while his friend initially thought he was wasting his time. The older boy didn't get to enjoy the impressed look and encouraging **(proud)**_ _smile as he quickly learned how to make the guitar behave the way he wanted, to produce beautiful sounds the old man's stiff fingers could no longer match._

_But he could teach his friend and then they could both play for others. And his friend could share the praise and attention too, making the older boy happy. It would be fun to share music with the older boy, to show his friend how to make the songs in his head become real. They just needed a guitar._

_It was a good idea. The older boy always had the best ideas. And his best friend actually had the nerve to go through with it, even if they both knew that the farmer had a bit of a temper. He knew that his friend would always take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself._

_And yes, listening to the older boy often got him in over his head. But he would follow his friend anywhere_ —

— _Every year, he tried to cross the bridge (_ _ **I have to get home, I have to see**_ **míja** _) and that meant devising new plans each time. And he'd grown rather creative over the decades. It would work eventually (_ _ **this year, this time, I'll make it this time, it has to work**_ _), so he needed to keep trying._

 _He couldn't stop. He couldn't give up. He had to keep trying **(because**_ _**stopping would mean I don't care enough to come home, because stopping would mean I don't love my daughter enough to come back to her, because stopping would mean she isn't important enough to me)** _ _no matter how many attempts he needed._

_And this year, he would need to borrow a van for his plan to work. So he was pleading and bargaining with the grumpiest person in Shantytown. The man was also one of the few people left who would still help him, who thought he was crazy and yet would still go along with his plans. The man would just glare up at him from under his large hat and mutter darkly about all the trouble he caused._

_He'd already exhausted most of his other options long ago, though he might be able to work out something with a couple other people if things grew desperate. And it wouldn't be too much longer before the man **(a**_ _**friend, a friend I'll lose like everyone else, how many times have I seen the Final Death now, how many are gone** )_ _lost patience with his schemes as well. The man would eventually stop loaning out belongings that were never returned._

 _But for now, a pair of keys were dropped grudgingly into his hand_ —

— _His calm and peace shattered violently, that murderer grabbing the boy (_ _ **no, leave Chamaco alone, not him**_ _) and yanking him back. And before he could react, his wife dove for the boy and was knocked aside by the man._

 _He briefly paused to make sure she_ **(mi amor** ) _was unharmed before turning back, trying to reclaim the boy **(**_ **míjo** ) _before that man could take anything else from him. He had to stop the musician. He and the others **(family,**_ _ **her family, my family** )_ _moved in as the man ordered them back. The crazy dog **(crazy**_ _ **little alebrije** )_ _tried to drag Chamaco to safety, prompting the man to yank and throw the boy closer to the edge._

 _Begging the man (_ _ **my childhood friend, my murderer**_ _) to stop, he wasn't ready when cold and sharp pain (_ _ **no, not yet, it hurts, not yet**_ _) flashed through him. His legs collapsed under him and he fell flat. But the instant it passed (_ _ **too weak, running out of energy to resist, running out of time**_ _), he continued pleading for the boy's life. She (_ **mi vida** ) _knelt worriedly next to him and he could barely hold himself up on his elbows, but he kept talking desperately to the musician._

 _But Chamaco (_ **míjo,** _ **my wonderful boy**_ _) yelled insults against the man in his defense (_ _ **don't do it, I can't stop the man, too weak, fading, I'm useless, helpless, I can't**_ _) and provoked the murderer. The man grabbed and lifted the boy (_ _ **no, no, I need to get up, I have to stop him, no**_ _) from the ground. And with a final harsh growl of his famous saying, the musician (_ _ **murderer, betrayer, monster**_ _) hurtled (_ _ **no, no, no**_ _) the boy (_ _ **not him, don't take him too**_ _) off the deadly edge_ —

—It hurt. Slowly and gradually, he was returning. Back to where there was a physical body, exhaustion, and pain. There was still a long way to go, but it was still starting to hurt. A distant pain, but one that he could tell would worsen as he drew near.

And it hurt so much. And he felt so… so… tired…

He didn't want to exist. He didn't want a physical shape. He didn't want pain. He didn't want those remembering to bring him back to pain.

It was hard to understand why he should want to go back when disappearing seemed so much easier—

— _His fingers gently moved across the strings, the music produced as tender and loving as his feelings for the child sitting on the edge of her bed. The way her face lit up when he played this song (_ _ **her song**_ _,_ **míja** _) always made him smile._

 _He wrote it for her so that even when he left (_ _ **don't leave her, don't leave, stay, stay with both of them**_ _), his daughter would know that he was thinking about her, would come home soon (_ _ **no, no, no, I just want to come home**_ _), and loved her with all his heart. And hearing her childish voice join his at the end would be a wonderful memory to accompany him as he went on this tour with his best friend. But he was going to miss his little girl so much_ —

— _She was angry with him. Angry and hurt. She was even refusing to turn and look at him. She (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) didn't want him to go. Not so far and not for so long._

 _He wrapped his arms around her from behind, hugging her close as he pressed a kiss into her bound hair and whispered loving words_ **(mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** ) _like a song meant only for her. He felt torn between his desire to stay with the woman and child he loved so deeply and the man who was practically a brother **(stay,**_ _ **don't go, don't leave** )_ _who promised to help him give his family the life that they deserved. His friend promised that the trip and the fame would give him inspiration for new songs, a chance to share his music with the world, and enough money for his girls to live comfortably._

_His wife once had a better life, a more comfortable life. But she chose an orphan musician against her parents' wishes and accepted a life with him instead. Only her brothers would speak to them, sneaking out to see her despite everything until they were old enough to leave their parents in turn. But she deserved better. And he would give her and their daughter the best life that he could._

_So he would have to leave **(stay,**_ _**stay, stay with them** )_ _for a little while._

 _He felt her relax against him as he whispered reassurances and promises. He would come back. He loved her and their daughter. It would only be for a short time. He would come home to her soon. Each promise was sealed with a soft kiss to her dark hair, his arms hugging her tight **(don't**_ _**let go, never let her go** )_ _as her hands eventually reached for his._

 _She twisted in his grip until she could face him. The anger and hurt remained in her eyes, but it was being swallowed up by the trust and love also there. Her hands slid up his arms until she reached his shoulders. One wrapped across both shoulders while the other moved up until her fingers buried into his hair and she gently pulling him down enough for a soft kiss to his cheek_ —

— _He didn't want to hurt his best friend or to ruin a life-long friendship, but his entire body ached to return home. They'd argued for a few weeks and he'd always surrendered before, continuing the tour. But not this time. Even at the risk of their friendship, he needed to leave. Family comes first._

 _But while clearly disappointed, his best friend seemed to understand. The man offered him a toast **(don't**_ _**touch it, don't drink it, don't drink it** )_ _to show that there were no hard feelings. He accepted the shot glass **(no,**_ _**don't, no, no, don't drink** )_ _and the soft clink of glass followed his friend's words. And with that, he brought the glass to his mouth and **(no,**_ _**no, no** )_ _swallowed the tequila, relieved that their friendship remained intact._

 _His friend offered to walk him to the train station, a rather long distance at night across a strange city. But the man wanted to see him off, to do the right thing and prove that they were departing on good terms. They walked at a relaxed pace, the train ticket in his pocket with the departure time written reassured him that they could make it easily. They talked a bit and the casual feeling reminded him of their childhood, when everything seemed so simple and it was only the two of them with their music. He could almost ignore the way his stomach seemed unsettled and uncomfortable with guilt **(with**_ _**poison** )_ _and how he kept having to swallow._

 _As he caught sight of the train station, the discomfort abruptly spiked into pain. He doubled over in agony, something burning and sharp slicing into him. He felt like fire and knives were trying to rip him apart from the inside out. He grabbed at his midsection **(it**_ _**hurt, make it stop, make it stop** ),_ _but there was nothing there hurting him._

 _His friend **(no,**_ _**no, no** )_ _placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke of food being to blame, taking the guitar case from him and freeing his hand to instinctively dig at the burning, sharp pain. His head pounded with an unsteady rhythm, his ears filled with his loud heartbeat and a dull roar. His fingers tingled strangely as he clenched the fabric of his clothes, but the pain overwhelmed everything else. It seemed to sweep over him in sickening waves as he struggled to get control over the sensation, gasping against the agony._

 _His vision blurred, the edges going dark. The burning and sharp pain kept growing worse, agonizingly intense. He fell to his knees as he lost his hold on his suitcase. And as the pain reached an unbearable state (_ _ **make it stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, I want to go home, make it stop, stop, stop**_ _), he lost his weakening grip on consciousness_ —

—He couldn't tell what was real. He couldn't tell what was in the past. He couldn't tell what was happening in that moment. Everything kept getting mixed up.

But there was something real. Something more solid and real than him.

There was something other than those who were remembering him, pulling him back and not letting him disappear. Something different and closer—

— _The rest of the family ran to the edge of the tower, no matter how little they could do as the boy (_ **míjo** _ **, no, not him, please**_ _) plunged towards the ground far below. He couldn't even try moving, staring in horror as the man walked past without a hint of regret. He just lay there, holding himself up on his elbows and breathing shakily._

 _Chamaco couldn't be gone. That man **(that**_ _ **murderer** )_ _couldn't have killed the boy **(not**_ **míjo** _**, not him, not my wonderful and talented boy** )_ _in front of him. It couldn't be real._

 _Flapping wings brought the bright and loyal alebrije into view with Chamaco **(alive,**_ _ **still alive, still alive** _ _) on her back. Everyone crowded around at the boy slid off, wrapping him in relieved hugs. Seeing Chamaco safe **(still**_ _ **alive, still alive and safe** )_ _left him feeling a little lighter, allowing him to focus on climbing unsteadily to his feet. It was harder than it should have been **(too**_ _ **tired, aching, weak** ),_ _but he managed as the alebrije stalked past._

_As his wife hugged the boy, he tried to walk over **(make**_ _**sure Chamaco is safe, unharmed, real** )_ _and join them. He made it two steps before a cold and sharp pain **(it**_ _**hurt, no, no, it's worse, too soon** )_ _raced over him **(hold**_ _**on, not yet, a little longer** ),_ _causing him to drop like a stone. Gasping weakly on his hands and knees, he could practically feel his strength pouring out of his body._

_The boy ran to his side, frantically explaining that the_ foto _was lost in the fall. He looked up and (_ _ **too late anyway, too late**_ _) reassured the boy, but light flashed (_ _ **pain, no, no, pain, feels like I'm breaking from the inside out, crumbling bones**_ _) across his body. He collapsed limply on the ground and desperately hoped (_ _ **please stop, make it stop**_ _) for it to pass._

 _Chamaco carefully rolled him **(tired,**_ _ **so tired, aching bones, too tired, weak** )_ _onto his back. The boy was scared for him. And another wave of familiar pain **(coming**_ _ **apart inside, it hurts, hold on** )_ _washed over him before **(going**_ _ **numb, too tired to feel properly, a kindness)** _ _fading once more. The boy spoke frantically, trying to figure out a way to save him **(too**_ _ **late, no time left, too far gone** ),_ _but his wife_ **(mi alma** ) _pointed out the rising sun as she knelt beside them._

 _He raised a shaking and weak hand to the boy's face **(**_ **míjo,** _**my precious boy, a surprise blessing for my last night** )_ _and noticed he could see Chamaco's skull through the fading skin. The boy was out of time **(both**_ _ **out of time** )_ _and needed to leave immediately **(save**_ _ **him, save Chamaco, don't let history repeat** )_ _or die._

 _Another sharp and cold flash (_ _ **shattering inner pain, deep in my bones, spiking through the numbness**_ _) shook his body (_ _ **hold on, almost**_ _) before dying down again. He let his hand slip down (_ _ **miss the contact already, regret letting go)**_ _and his fingers wrapped around the_ cempazúchitl _petal._

_He was out of time. He would never see his daughter **(never**_ _**get to apologize, never get to tell his girl he loved her** )_ _and never make things right. All he could do was help Chamaco instead._

_His weakening body shuddered **(coming**_ _**apart, hold on, a little longer** )_ _as another shimmer of light hit him. They were coming faster and faster. He didn't have much energy left. Talking or even keeping his eyes open **(stay**_ _**with them, don't let go yet** )_ _was a struggle. And when he tried to raise his hand with the petal, it shook and nearly fell back down._

_She_ **(mi** **amor** _) wrapped both of her hands **(warm,**_ _**comforting, gentle** )_ _around his own, supporting him. He caught a glimpse of her smiling (_ _**fragile, sad** _ _) at the boy, trying to reassure Chamaco that everything would be all right and that it was time to go home. Then his eyes fluttered shut **(too**_ _**tired, too weak, growing numb** )_ _as the boy grabbed his arm and shoulder desperately, pleading and frantic to stop it._

_Yet another flash **(no,**_ _ **a little longer, almost** )_ _flared across his body, but he focused on the boy **(give**_ _ **Chamaco the blessing, save him** )._ _He tried to look at the boy, tried to assure the child. Please, just let Chamaco **(**_ **míjo** ) _do the one thing that he wished to accomplish more than anything else: go home. A flash **(hold**_ _ **on, please, no** )_ _hit as he tried to smile, only seconds after the previous flare and barely after his fragile words, his eyes falling closed._

_He could barely stay awake, but he felt and heard the moment the petal touched the boy and sent Chamaco home **(safe,**_ _**the boy was safe, I didn't fail him** )._ _He heard her sigh in relief and felt her hands pull back towards her lap._

_But she didn't let go of his hand even as another strong wave_ _**(no pain, too far gone for that, but it should hurt** _ _) caused him to spasm weakly **(hold**_ _ **on, for her, stay for her,** _ **mi amor** ). _As it passed, it left only exhausted numbness in its wake. Even if he couldn't move and couldn't even open his eyes **(growing**_ _ **quiet, dark, cold** _ _), he tried to focus on her hands holding his. Tried to… focus on… her…_

_A weak smile… was all he… could manage **(so**_ _**tired** )..._ _But maybe… it would be… enough…_

_A coldness wrapped around him **(can't**_ _**hold on, slipping, falling** )..._

_He couldn't… feel her… or anything…_

There was something there. Even as everything kept shifting and changing, kept making it impossible to know what was really happening, there was something constant.

A presence. Sometimes one unfamiliar and strange. But other times achingly familiar. Sometimes silent and sometimes speaking words he could barely hear and couldn't understand.

But no matter how chaotic, confusing, or increasingly painful it might be, the presence of someone was comforting. Like those remembering and drawing him back, it was a sign that he wasn't alone.

Not alone. Wanted. It felt nice.

It felt like home.

And he desperately wanted to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While often abbreviated as D.C. when written on sheet music, "da capo" literally translates as "from the head" and means for the musician to go back to the beginning of the piece. No matter where on the page it is, D.C. indicates that you must go back to where the song started and play it again. It seemed thematically appropriate for a chapter with so many flashback pieces.
> 
> Also, congrats on "Coco" winning two Oscars: one for Best Animated Feature and one for "Remember Me" for Best Original Song. They deserved it.


	8. Crescendo

She ended up waking up earlier than she intended, though Imelda managed a bit more sleep than the night before. Not because the pallet tucked into her office proved to be more comfortable than Rosita's bed. It was because she left the door open a crack like she did when Coco was young and didn't like the dark and quiet of her room at night. Whenever Imelda woke with the feeling of dread that tried to wrap around her long-absent heart, the sliver of golden glow from the room down the hall reassured her enough for the woman to drift back off for a little longer.

And she was too worn out to dream. Or at least too worn out to remember them. That helped.

But when she woke up for the final time in the early morning, Imelda easily realized that she wouldn't be drifting off again. So she pushed herself up and quietly slipped towards her room to collect some clothes for the day.

Victoria looked up briefly from her project as she stepped into the room, but she didn't move from the chair that she'd occupied the entire night. Different pieces of purple fabric were scattered across her lap along with a few spools of thread. In her hands was Héctor's shirt.

There was no way to salvage it completely. Not when one sleeve was completely gone and with the large rips in the fabric. But Victoria clearly took up the challenge valiantly. She'd pulled out some of the unraveling seams to detached the remaining sleeve, letting her use the extra material to patch the tears and fraying edges. But for the back, she needed more fabric than what she could salvage. So Victoria had apparently tried out a variety of available materials before finding one close to the right shade, a silky fabric that she was sewing in place at that moment.

His shirt would end up more as a vest whenever Victoria finished, but it would at least be in better condition and should hold up for a while. Just because they specialized in shoes didn't mean that the Rivera women didn't have decent skills with cloth.

"Rosita suggested I could work on this," Victoria said quietly. "It was something that needed to be addressed and it helped pass the time."

Imelda gave her a nod of acknowledgment, but didn't ask if there were any changes. Her granddaughter would tell her if there were. She didn't ask and she didn't step over to check herself. Not this time. Instead, she headed over to her wardrobe and collected her outfit and boots, trying to only stare for a moment or so at his silent and lifeless figure in her bed.

Three days. This was the third morning since _Día de Muertos_. The third morning since Héctor appeared back in their afterlives. The third morning since the Final Death tried to claim him. The third morning with no sign of improvement.

She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, steeling herself with each step. Maybe she was wrong to believe that there was a chance. Maybe Dr. García's remarks that Héctor may never wake up would turn out to be true. Maybe this would be it. Maybe he would never get any better.

Imelda closed the door and slipped out of her nightgown. Moving without thought, she pulled on her dress and boots, splashed water on her face, and then started to work on brushing her hair. Her hands went through the motions automatically as her mind confronted the possibility.

He may never wake up. He wasn't getting better so far, not enough to really notice for certain. Perhaps Coco and Miguel would keep his memory alive, but it was very possible that he'd faded too much. He may not be able to come back, no matter what either of them might want. She might have to accept that Héctor would stay like this for the rest of his afterlife.

She still had hope. She wouldn't give up on him completely. Not again. Never again. But it was time to start considering the alternative possibilities.

Not the worst-case scenario. Not Coco forgetting him at any moment, a short reprieve of a few days. No, she wouldn't consider that. She refused to let that be a possibility.

But if Héctor couldn't recover from what happened, if he remained trapped on the edge of the Final Death, then this may be all she would ever have. No chance to say anything to him that he would ever hear. No chance to listen to him, to _finally_ listen to him like she should have decades ago. All she would have would be a silent, still, lifeless shell of a man.

She silently started weaving her purple ribbons into her hair, the complicated pattern she favored almost instinctive after so many years. She didn't even have to think about it as her fingers moved through the strands, ignoring the tightness in her ribcage or the haunted expression she glimpsed in the mirror.

If Héctor never woke up, they would still take care of him. No matter what mistakes he'd made, he deserved that. He didn't abandon them. No matter what she believed for decades and still struggled to remember, Héctor didn't want to abandon any of them. And she wouldn't abandon him now. They wouldn't leave him alone.

Imelda looked in the mirror. Her hair, dress, and face were all neat and fixed up. She looked put together and in control. She looked ready to handle whatever the day might bring. And if she looked like it, then she should be able to manage.

She could handle this. Whatever happened, she could handle this.

She heard floorboards creaking overhead as she stepped out of the bathroom, indicating that the rest of the household was beginning to stir. And that meant that she should probably head downstairs and start breakfast. They needed to keep up the routine, keep going like always. Rosita would probably be down shortly to help, but Imelda could at least get started. From there, they could work on figuring out who would be in the workshop and who would be staying with Héctor.

They could handle this. She could take care of everything.

But as she reached the ground floor, a knock on the door made Imelda stiffen. A second unexpected visitor to their home within a few days made her uneasy. Helena was nice enough, but it was too early to deal with shocking and emotional revelations. She wasn't eager for more.

On the other hand, she was still the head of the household. She needed to deal with this before the rest of the family came down. Besides, she was already dressed and ready for the rest of the day. It wouldn't be right to make whoever it was wait until everyone else could change clothes.

She could handle this.

But as surprising as it was to find a departures agent on their doorstep a few days ago, opening the door and seeing the police there was even more so. At least Helena's arrival made a little sense because of Miguel showing up that night. The police force always sent a few of their people to the Marigold Grand Central Station for _Día de Muertos_ because of the vast numbers of people moving through the place, but her mind went blank on why the two uniformed men would be at their home. Did they come to apologize for not finding the boy that night and leaving her and Pepita to do all the work? It was far too early in the morning for this and even if she slept a little better, Imelda was too tired to try and puzzle this out.

At least they looked mildly apologetic as they took off their hats, smiling in greetings.

"Señora Rivera?" asked the one on the left, his jawline lined with blue and silver starburst patterns and his black mustache neatly trimmed.

" _Sí_ ," she said evenly. "How can I help you?"

"My name is Officer Márquez," said the one on the right, the one with gray hairs scattered across his head. His facial markings were purple and blue swirls that encircled his eye sockets and dots that ran across his chin. "This is my partner, Officer Inglesias. You are the family for the living boy who crossed over on _Día de Muertos_ , correct?"

"Miguel is my great-great-grandson. And he's back home, safe and sound," she said evenly. "What's this all about?"

Straightening his uniform slightly, Officer Inglesias said, "We apologize for the early hour, but we didn't want to delay proceedings any longer than they already have. If it wouldn't be too great of an inconvenience, Señora, would you be willing to accompany us down to the station? We have a… complicated situation and as a representative of the injured party, we thought it would be best for you to come in and make your statement. We're still working out the legalities on some of the charges and any information you might have on events could help."

"What charges?" Imelda asked sharply. "What is going on?"

"We finally got around to dragging Señor Ernesto de la Cruz out from under that bell last night," said Officer Márquez, not dancing around the issue. "He's in our custody and is being charged with Assault on a Minor and will likely be facing the highest sentence possible for the crime due to the nature of the minor. We're also attempting to bring up other possible charges based on the testimony of those who witnessed the broadcast and heard what was said that morning." He shifted his hat in his hands briefly. "Like a possible charge of Murder in Life Without Conviction. We're also trying to see if there's something on the books that we can charge him with for attempting to murder a living child. Committing murder or attempting murder in the Land of the Dead isn't something that comes up very often…"

As soon as he spoke that man's name, Imelda went stiff and cold. Cold enough to burn. Anger, hatred, and protective fury remained locked up in a block of ice. Trapped and waiting.

That man… He was the one responsible for so much pain for so many people. One act of betrayal shaped generations of her family. And when one murder wasn't enough, he tried to kill Miguel to keep his secret. Music wasn't a curse on her family. It was _him_.

No more. Ernesto de la Cruz hurt enough of her family. She wanted to be certain that he would face justice for everything he took from the Rivera family.

"You want me to come down to the station," she said evenly. "Very well. Will I have a chance to speak with him?"

"I'm not certain that's…" began Officer Inglesias before his eyes widened, apparently taking notice of her expression and trailing off.

Awkwardly, Officer Márquez said, "We'll see if something can be arranged, Señora."

Approaching footsteps made Imelda glance behind her. Oscar and Felipe were walking towards her with mirrored expressions of confusion and concern.

"Imelda?" asked Oscar quietly.

"I'm going out for a while," she said, something in her tone making both of her brothers cringe uneasily. "Keep an eye on everything while I'm gone. I'm counting on you."

Hesitating a moment, Felipe said, "Okay. We'll let—"

"—everyone know where you've gone—"

"—and make sure that Victoria gets some sleep—"

"—and that we start some breakfast—"

"—and the two of us will keep watch upstairs."

Oscar nodded, the pair of them giving matching reassuring smiles. Imelda knew they would do their best. She remembered how much they helped when she first started her business, watching Coco and keeping her distracted while she worked. She could always depend on the two of them. Unlike some people, they never let her down or abandoned her.

No, that wasn't fair. Imelda gritted her teeth and wrestled her mind away from that familiar trail of thought. That was just old anger and old reactions. That was ninety-six years of false assumptions coloring her thoughts.

But regardless, she could count on Oscar and Felipe to take care of everything in her absence. So Imelda gave them both a quick nod and turned, stepping out the door and joining the two officers.

* * *

"Miguel," said Abuelita, interrupting his breakfast and making the boy turn his head towards her. "May I talk to you before you go to school?"

Her tone was unusual, a tension in it that he didn't recognize and didn't like. The simple request made him freeze, his appetite vanishing as dread and mild panic started twisting in his stomach. He pushed himself away from the table. His mind raced desperately as Miguel followed her towards his room.

The strange tone in her voice terrified Miguel because he didn't know what it meant because he couldn't remember Abuelita _ever_ sounding like that. One possible answer flashed through his thoughts like lightning. She changed her mind. Abuelita changed her mind and everything was going back to the way it used to be.

He tried to calm down as his breathing slipped into panicked gasps. He should have known. He should have known it couldn't last. Now Abuelita would tell him no more music. And she would take the guitar. He would hate it, but he could live with that. He could. Honest. But the worst part would be that she would tear the _foto_ again and everyone would forget about Papá Héctor. It would be like _Día de Muertos_ never happened.

It was okay. He silently reassured himself as Abuelita finally reached his room. It would be okay. Even if no one else in the family wanted to remember, he and Mamá Coco would. No one could make him forget. And even if she tore the original _foto_ , Miguel now had six copies hidden in different spots. The one under his pillow and the one tucked into one of the books he'd hidden under his bed were the closest, but not the only ones. His family wouldn't be able to find them all and he could always make more copies as he saved up more money. As long as he kept at least one, he could find a way to sneak it on the _ofrenda_. Papá Héctor would be safe.

It was okay. Maybe if he repeated it in his head enough times, he would even believe it.

Especially since his current silent panic wasn't that helpful.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Abuelita said, "Miguel, you know that your family loves you and that we've always tried to do our best to take care of you. Anything we've done, we've done to protect this family."

Miguel's eyes flickered briefly to the guitar in the corner and then to his pillow, a copy of the photograph hidden so close to her. This was it. This was the moment that she took everything back, undoing everything that they'd gained. He should have known. He should have known it would happen. Anything else was an impossible dream. He blinked rapidly as his eyes burned, threatening to spill over already.

No music. That man deserves to be forgotten.

She wouldn't make him forget Papá Héctor though. His memory would be safe. She couldn't take that.

"When we found your hiding place in the attic, when we found your _ofrenda_ for that _músico_ , I was afraid that you were heading down the same path that Mamá Coco's papá took," she said.

"Papá Héctor," said Miguel firmly. "He has a name, Abuelita. Even if everyone else forgot it."

He saw a flicker of anger in her expression. No matter how much Mamá Coco may love and want to talk about him again, Abuelita didn't like Héctor. She was still mad. She had spent her entire life hating him and she clearly wasn't forgiving the man yet. Abuelita only allowed his memory back in the household because Mamá Coco wanted him. As long as Mamá Coco was aware and communicating with everyone again, she would stop discouraging her mamá from talking about him. But Miguel knew she didn't like or trust the man even in death and didn't want to think about him.

Which was probably why she must have changed her mind. Which was probably why music was about to vanish again, the _foto_ torn, and man ignored. It made perfect sense. Miguel's hand wrapped around his wrist, his eyes dropping briefly towards the floor.

"I was trying to protect you, my precious Miguelito," she continued. "I tried to do what Mamá Imelda would have wanted. But perhaps not all her decisions were perfect and she might have made some mistakes. And so have I."

She shook her head tiredly. Confusion was gradually overcoming Miguel's panic. If this was the lead up to the return of the music ban, she was taking the most indirect path possible.

"I'm sorry, _míjo_ ," she said. "You shouldn't have kept secrets from your family, but I shouldn't have destroyed your guitar that evening."

His guitar.

The makeshift instrument that he cobbled together with scraps and pieces of whatever he could find, painstakingly working on it over time until it resembled the beautiful guitar that now rested in his room. He'd loved it, putting so much effort and devotion into crafting something that let Miguel create music and connect to his idol. Watching Abuelita smash it into splinters and the anger and hurt its destruction caused now seemed so long ago. Compared to everything else that happened that night, everything he found and everything he nearly lost, it didn't seem as important anymore.

"I know why you did it, Abuelita," said Miguel quietly. "It wasn't right and it wasn't fair, but I understand. And you're sorry now. You know it was a mistake. And you won't break Papá Héctor's guitar too, right?"

"No. That would break your Mamá Coco's heart. I already told you that you may have music, Miguel. You may play it as long as you don't get carried away," she said. "As long as you don't start following that man's footsteps and start putting your ambitions first, everything should be fine."

Miguel's brow furrowed and his mouth twisted into a frown, the boy turning away as he picked up his backpack. He couldn't meet her eyes. Not if she kept saying things like that.

He couldn't tell her the truth. Not when he learned it in such an impossible way. But she would never forgive Héctor even if they were allowed to talk about him now. Not unless she was forced to rethink things.

He couldn't tell her everything he knew, but he could at least talk about stuff the rest of the family could figure out.

"Abuelita," said Miguel quietly. "You read those letters. And you heard Mamá Coco's stories. Did any of those make him sound like the kind of man who would abandon his family because of ambition?"

"He _did_. We all know that he left and never came back," she snapped. "Nothing we read will change that fact."

"Papá Héctor loved them. He loved Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco so much and missed them when he was gone. You can see that in every letter, the ones he wrote for both of them," said Miguel evenly, still not meeting her eyes. "He wrote to them, saying he would come home soon. He promised."

"So he's also a liar."

" _Or_ Mamá Imelda was _wrong_ and he _didn't_ abandon them on purpose." He finally looked at her, his gaze firm and unwavering. "She never told you about the letters, did she? Never talked about the letters or the songs he wrote for his family or any of it because she never talked about him. Everyone acted like he just left one day and never looked back."

He shook his head tiredly. He remembered how Héctor talked about his daughter while they were trapped in the _cenote_. How he stared at the _foto_ of his family as if holding the greatest and most precious treasure in the world. How his face lit up when Mamá Imelda hugged him offstage in that brief moment. Miguel wished that he could make everyone understand how much he clearly loved and missed his family, even after not seeing them for so long.

"And weren't things different back then?" he continued. "Traveling around the countryside almost a hundred years ago wasn't exactly safe, was it? Not like today. Which sounds more likely? A man who wrote those letters abruptly deciding to never come home? Or something bad happening to him while he was gone?" Miguel crossed his arms. "Did anyone ever wonder _why_ he never came back or did Mamá Imelda just get mad and decide that he must have abandoned his family?"

She didn't respond to his words, but Miguel saw her expression shift. He saw how she was actually giving his questions careful consideration. She stared at him with a thoughtful frown. Miguel pulled his backpack on, letting his words sink in.

"No one in this family ever considered what else might have happened to Papá Héctor. Maybe there was an accident on the road. Or maybe he got sick." Miguel paused before deciding to push a little further. "He could have even been murdered. We don't know because no one ever tried to find out. No one ever tried to get answers about why he never came back to his family. Everyone just assumed the worst. They blamed him and they blamed music, never giving either one a chance."

"Miguelito," she said quietly.

"You were wrong to smash my guitar. And it was wrong to ban music for so long. Maybe Mamá Imelda was wrong to assume the worst about Papá Héctor," continued Miguel. "He doesn't sound like someone who prefers fame to family. I don't think his ambition made him forget about how much he loved them. I just think we've spent a long time believing something that doesn't make much sense." He turned towards the door. "I'll see you after school, Abuelita."

He didn't wait to hear what she would say. She looked like she had a lot on her mind. Miguel hoped she would really think about it. But it might take time for her to change. Until then, he would just have to keep working.

* * *

Giving her statement to the police took less time than expected. The story seemed longer in her head. Imelda explained in concise detail what happened on _Día de Muertos_ , both what she personally witnessed and what she'd managed to learn from Miguel and Héctor that night. Unfortunately, describing what little she knew of how her great-great-grandson ended up trapped in a _cenote_ to die and then explaining the events of the Sunrise Spectacular only made her frozen fury worse. By the end of her statement, Imelda stood rigid as a statue and Officer Inglesias looked unnerved from the other side of the desk.

But while she could give them information on Ernesto trying to murder Miguel, something that the broadcast and countless people in the audience could support, Imelda couldn't tell them anything about his earliest crime. All anyone knew was what Miguel said and Ernesto didn't deny. They knew that he killed Héctor and nothing more.

"There is nothing official on the books about attempting to murder a living child," said Officer Márquez, returning with a thick tome. Dropping it on the desk produced a small cloud of dust. "But apparently someone tried to cover a few loopholes in the past, no matter how unlikely. And no one ever took these older laws off the books. They mostly just forgot about them because they don't come up. Physically harming or attempting to physically harm the living _is_ illegal, even if we can't normally interact with them."

"Tossing a boy off a tower certainly counts," Officer Inglesias said. "What is the possible sentence?"

"Well, it's a bit out of date with most of our current laws, but it can vary a little depending on the severity. Imprisonment is part of the sentence."

"He's already facing that anyway," Officer Inglesias said. "Assault on a Minor carries that sentence if it is severe enough and we have video evidence on that one. He's not getting out of it. Murder in Life Without Conviction carries an even longer imprisonment sentence if he doesn't get a lawyer who'll help him wiggle out of it. Either way, he'll still face at least some jail time."

Murder as a general crime, and Murder in Life Without Conviction specifically, were some of the few charges that depended on a person's actions in the Land of the Living. Murder would always be a more serious crime and it was more difficult to claim innocence when the victim could often give testimony. But while it was bad to be known as a murderer, the punishment in death depended on a variety of factors such as what your punishment in life was, how many victims there were, if there was any evidence of remorse, and so on.

Murder in Life Without Conviction meant that you killed someone and was never punished for the act. The punishment in the Land of the Dead was especially severe to make up for that failure. And the longer the perpetrator went without being discovered, whether in life or in death, the harsher it would be.

Continuing, Officer Márquez said, "In addition to imprisonment, one of the official punishments for attempting to physically harm the living is for his belongings, offerings, and any property to be seized and given to the closest dead relative of the victim as compensation." He shrugged. "As I told you, it is a bit outdated compared to most of our current laws. But it is still in place."

The closest dead relative to Miguel would probably be Julio, his great-grandfather. And she knew he would support whatever decision she made. Her son-in-law was a sensible, supportive, dependable, and helpful man like that.

But Imelda wanted _nothing_ from Ernesto. Not his house. Not his wealth. Not his countless offerings from his living fans. Everything that man possessed, all that fame and fortune, was built on the foundation of her husband's murder. He gained it all by destroying her family.

"I don't want it," said Imelda coldly. "Do something good with that lying murderer's legacy." She paused briefly, trying to think of the best use for possessions, and abruptly recalled her granddaughter mentioning her visit to Shantytown. "Ernesto de la Cruz wanted to be loved and remembered forever? Fine. Give his offerings and wealth to those being forgotten, those with no family and no _foto_ on any _ofrenda_. That man has taken enough. Make him give to those with nothing. Let them have that foolish house of his or sell it and give the profits to them. My family needs nothing of his. Give it to those who do."

While the two officers looked surprised by her decision, they appeared to approve of it. She didn't care what they thought. Imelda only came for two reasons. She came to ensure that Ernesto de la Cruz finally faced justice for his actions. And she came to ensure that he faced _her_ for what he'd done.

"We will ensure that your wishes are made known when Señor de la Cruz is put on trial," said Officer Márquez. "Most of the charges would be difficult for him to evade by this point. The Murder in Life Without Conviction is something he might try to deny though. We have very little information on the crime and simply refusing to deny the boy's accusations isn't precisely a confession. It could be dismissed by a talented lawyer. If we can't learn more or gain a proper confession, you may have to be satisfied with the lesser charges."

Drawing herself up a little taller, Imelda said, "That is not good enough. That _asesino_ escaped justice for too long. He will answer for what he did to my family. All of it." She glared at the pair firmly. "You told me that I could speak to him. Let me see that man and you will have your confession. I knew him in life and that second-rate _músico_ knows that I am immune to his charms and his tricks."

They exchanged uneasy glances. Her determined expression didn't even twitch, though the frozen fire of her anger cracked slightly as it tried to escape.

"That was not a request. It was a statement of what is going to happen, with or without your cooperation," she said evenly. "Would you show me the way to where you've locked him up or do you need to check your devil box first?"

She gestured dismissively at the piece of junk on the desk. Officer Márquez ran a tired hand along his skull before shaking his head.

"Fine. Señor de la Cruz is currently being treated for his injuries. You may speak to him while the _doctora_ is finishing up," said Officer Márquez. "And if he should choose to give a proper confession, then so be it."

And with that decision made, the two officers led her through the rest of the station. Imelda held her head high and ignored the occasional glances from the other people around her. Some seemed to be studying her, trying to decide if they recognized her. Imelda didn't pause to let them.

They eventually led her to a door. It wasn't a cell with bars since that could be easily escaped from with a little disassembling by a desperate soul. Thick stone walls and a solid steel door was far more secure.

"Officer Inglesias will have to remain present in the room and you need to stay on the other side of the table from the suspect or we'll terminate the visit instantly," said Officer Márquez. "Other than that, you may have your conversation, Señora."

She nodded, the movement sharp and precise. Imelda remained in control, her temper still frozen solid and waiting. But not for much longer. Ice couldn't last forever when she was meant to exist as fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I intended for this chapter to include the confrontation between Imelda and Ernesto. But that part ended up growing a lot longer than I originally predicted and would have made this chapter insanely long by the end. So this chapter builds up to it instead and the next chapter will have his appearance.
> 
> A "crescendo" is when the music gradually grows louder and builds over the course of a section. It is usually represented on sheet music with a symbol that looks like a sideways V that stretches over the portion of music that is growing louder. It seemed appropriate for a chapter that is growing and building towards a confrontation.


	9. Forte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that you're all eager to see how this works out. But at least you didn't have to wait too long for this update. I wrote most of it while working on the previous chapter until I realized how insanely long it was growing.
> 
> And some people even managed to guess this chapter's title already. "Forte" literally means "strong" and indicates that music should be played loud. Not very loud since that would be "fortissimo," but still loud.

The door opened with a slight creak as Officer Inglesias led her into the room. Other than the two chairs and the table, metal and sturdy in design, there was little in terms of furnishings. The dull gray of the walls and furniture felt depressing compared to the rest of the bright city. She didn't let that bother her as Imelda took a seat across the table, glaring at the lying, murderous _músico_.

Ernesto de la Cruz had certainly seen better days. His expensive suit was torn and dirt was ground into the fabric, hanging off his frame in a way that made them look more like rags. Imelda could glimpse his bound ribs, indicating that the _doctora_ standing beside him had already started her job. The _doctora_ , her expression one of cool professionalism and her facial markings a trail of pink flower petals, was currently studying how best to fix his broken collarbone. Imelda could also spot at least two further breaks in his arm through the tears in his suit and a very noticeable crack spread along his skull like a spiderweb. If there were any injuries further down, sitting behind the table hid them for the moment.

They looked painful. A more forgiving woman might feel a flicker of sympathy for him. But Imelda remembered how well-remembered the man was and that he would heal relatively quickly. And she remembered how Héctor was held together with tape, his injuries not healing because almost no memories remained. She remembered how Héctor was alone for decades, estranged from his family since his death. She remembered how Héctor's body spasmed and weakened, fading before her eyes as he was nearly forgotten. She remembered how limp and lifeless Héctor remained, trapped on the brink of the Final Death even now. And she remembered it all started because Ernesto murdered his best friend and left her family with only gossip and assumptions on why he never came home.

Imelda felt absolutely no sympathy for the man.

"You don't look so well, Ernesto," she said coldly. "Did that dance you forced me into wear you out? Or perhaps this is what happens when you are a lying murderer?"

"Nice to see you again too," muttered Ernesto darkly, not looking overly surprised by her presence. "I assume you sent that boy home."

"No thanks to you," she snapped, her anger starting to crack through the ice. "First you tried to trap him in a _cenote_ so he would never go home."

Gesturing with the hand on his intact arm with a slight wince, he said, "I couldn't send Miguel after he heard all those stories. He could have destroyed my reputation. And it wasn't like I directly tried to kill him. I merely tried to let things take their natural course. Anyone would have done the same." He paused briefly and asked, "Just to clarify, was Miguel only _your_ great-great-grandson or did one of your descendants marry—"

" _No_ ," Imelda snapped, revolted by the idea and the fact Miguel even considered the possibility that she would marry Ernesto. "My family has nothing to do with any unclaimed children that you might have left behind. Not that believing he was related to you stopped you from having Miguel thrown in a sinkhole. Or throwing him from a tower." She pointed sharply at the man. "And you can't claim _that_ wasn't an attempt to kill him. Nothing has ever changed. You are just as insecure—"

"Insecure? I am Ernesto de la Cruz, the world's greatest musician—"

"I _know_ who you are," she said. Both of their voices were rising as their emotions did. "I've known you since long before anyone knew your name. I knew you when you were singing in the plaza, smiling at any _señorita_ who caught your eye. I remember how you tried to disguise it with _charm_ and _machismo_ , but I could see how desperate you were for attention and approval. And how you would rather have someone else do the hard work and take the risks. How you were terrified of failure." She shook her head dismissively. "It was understandable when you were a boy causing trouble while your closest friend followed after you, a caring younger brother and your most loyal fan all in one. But then you became an adult and believed you were entitled to whatever you wanted. I saw it even when Héctor excused your faults. You are nothing more than a selfish, cowardly, insecure—"

"I am _not_ a coward and I am _not_ insecure, Imelda Rivera."

They always brought out the worst in each other. It was one of the many reasons that she didn't like it when Héctor brought his friend around. His attitude and behavior frustrated her nearly as much as his influence on her husband and Ernesto couldn't charm or blind her from seeing everything he tried to hide. There was always a high chance that they would end up fighting and poor Héctor would end up in the middle. But if there was one advantage to the situation, it was that she knew that her presence would grate on his patience and self-control enough that he could not think to censor his words.

He would be honest because he would be too upset and frustrated by her words to be anything else.

"Miguel is a child," Imelda said evenly. "Even if he knew that you were a fraud and a murderer, what threat was he to you? Why would you need to kill him?"

"He could tell everyone! He could destroy my reputation in the Land of the Living! He could ruin everything I built."

Everything he built by murdering her husband. The ice was gone. Her rage was a building inferno. Her body shook slightly from restrained fury.

"He is a child and you are a beloved musician that everyone respects, no matter how little you deserve it. No one would believe him. Miguel would not be able to prove anything. Any proof of your crimes would be long gone. He could do _nothing_ to you if he went home," she hissed. "But you couldn't take the risk. You were so insecure that your reputation would shatter on the word of a boy that you tried to trap him here until dawn. And when that failed, you tried to kill him directly."

He looked away sharply, the abrupt movement nearly dislodging the _doctora_ 's grip. She scowled before tugging at his ruined jacket so she could get a better look at the damage to his arm.

"Success only comes to those who are willing to seize their moment, no matter what it takes. And sometimes you have to defend that success from those who would take it away," he said calmly. "Nothing of value ever comes for free."

"And was Héctor's life the price that you chose to pay for your fame?" said Imelda, her voice both cold and burning with a lifetime of fury and loss. "The life of a friend who saw you as a brother? The life of my husband? The life of Coco's papá? Was he worth so little to you?" When he didn't immediately respond, Imelda said, "You were at our wedding. Coco called you her tío. Even if I never liked you as much as Héctor did and I didn't like how he would agree to whatever you wanted, you were a part of our lives. Did it not matter? Did you have no regrets over what you did? And don't bother lying. We both know it never worked on me."

"I have one regret, Imelda," said Ernesto with a strange tone in his voice, one that cut through her anger and sent a chill to her very marrow. "I realized in the years after poor Héctor's death that it was such a tragic waste. Whether he lived or died, all that talent would be wasted rather than shared with the world. I regret that I did not realize the better solution until long after."

He turned back to look Imelda in the eyes, his expression empty of his normal charm and friendly demeanor. There was a blankness to his face, as if all hints of humanity had vanished.

"I regret that he and his future songs were gone when it would have been better to eliminate the _real_ problem. Héctor would not have turned on me and tried to abandon me if it wasn't for you and that child. A loyalty that _you_ clearly didn't share; I'm not the one who ensured the living forgot about him. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out who did that."

She turned away, staring at the table instead. She refused to let him know that he'd found a vulnerable spot.

"Losing Héctor was a tragedy," Ernesto continued in his strange tone of voice. "A tragedy and a waste that could have been easily avoided. There was a far more reasonable solution and I regret not realizing it before his death. Perhaps he would have grieved for a time, but the death of his family would have been better in the long run. Losing you and the child would have solved the problem."

Imelda surged to her feet and slammed her hands on the table, sharp words struggling to break out. How _dare_ he even _hint_ at threatening Coco?

Ernesto yelped at the same moment. His injured arm _popped_ off at the shoulder, the _doctora_ removing it in order to properly set it without distraction. Because the connections between his bones far stronger than the frayed memories that held Héctor's joints together, the removal took more effort and felt disconcerting.

Imelda used the distraction to rein in her temper just enough to avoid lashing out. She couldn't get the answers that she wanted and the police wouldn't get the confession they needed if Officer Inglesias was forced to remove her from the room.

"Ernesto de la Cruz, you will tell me what happened. You couldn't even bother with a letter to us when Héctor died," she said. "You could have told us that there was an accident or a sickness or _something_. But you never said a word. You refused to give us even a comforting lie."

"Why should I give anything to you or that girl?" snapped Ernesto. "You ruined everything. We were fine until you started twisting his head around. He wanted to abandon everything we worked towards and it was your fault. You didn't deserve anything, not even a lie to give you closure. It was your and that girl's fault that I had to kill him."

He didn't seem to realize that he had just flat-out confessed to murder in front of a police officer. Imelda suspected he was focusing only on his audience of one, on the person that he was trying to blame for his actions. She stood there, hands pressed against the table and her breathing growing a little faster. But she wasn't done yet. As much as she hated the man, she still needed answers.

She needed the truth. After decades of false assumptions and spiteful fears, she needed to know the truth. All of it.

"What did you do?" she asked. "How did you 'seize the moment,' Ernesto? A knife? A fall like you tried with Miguel? Or did you simply use your bare hands to end his life?"

"Do you think I am some type of monster, Imelda? Do you think I _wanted_ him to die? That I enjoyed it?" said Ernesto. "He left me with no other options. Anyone in the same situation would do exactly as I did."

"And what situation would that be?" she asked, her voice as sharp as glass shards.

Because she knew Ernesto. She knew him long before fame and fortune. She knew him when he was a musician who had yet to be noticed beyond his hometown. Imelda knew what kind of man he was at the core.

He was the kind who would defend, deflect, and blame others for his actions. He was the kind who needed to make excuses that made someone else responsible for his mistakes. He was the kind who needed to feel validated. And he was the kind who would always perform for his audience.

"Héctor wanted to take his songs and abandon our dream. All because he wouldn't stop dwelling on the two of you. He was distracted, restless, and withdrawn. By autumn, all he would talk about was you and that child. All those letters that he wrote, how he missed seeing his girls, how lonely traveling seemed… That's all he seemed to care about. Not the crowds that were growing steadily, those we were supposed to be impressing so that we could start performing at bigger venues. And then it got worse. He started talking about wanting to return to Santa Cecilia, turning his back at our chance to make our dream come true and become the greatest musicians ever. Each time, I managed to convince him to continue. We couldn't disappoint our fans and we were a team. But each argument grew more difficult."

He cringed as the _doctora_ shifted his ulna as his disconnected arm rested on the table, the woman trying to splint the break from the bell. Obviously she gave him something earlier to dull the pain, but it clearly didn't block out all of it. Imelda felt a wave of grim satisfaction that it still hurt.

"I never wanted to harm Héctor. He was my best friend. But I couldn't let him throw away our dream. I couldn't let him drag me down to obscurity just because you and that child sunk your talons into him," continued Ernesto after a moment. "I decided to take precautions. A contingency plan, if you will. One I figured would never be necessary, but I never expected Héctor to betray our years of friendship like that either."

Imelda was shaking slightly. Not because she was cold. And not because she was scared. No, this was rage. Barely restrained rage. Every word from the man's mouth made her want to break his jaw more and more.

"Rat poison has never been difficult to obtained, even if I chose the stronger powder form rather than the watered-down liquid sold in bottles. And every other cheap murder mystery novel tells us that arsenic is the ideal poison: quick and effective, without taste or odor, and easy to hide in food or drink. But even when I bought it and measured out the powder, I didn't think it would ever be necessary. I merely tucked it away in a tiny paper bundle in my pocket. Just in case," he said dismissively. "Even as his remarks about wanting to go back grew more frequent, I was confident that he would always listen to reason and stay. I was confident I would never need my contingency plan and forgot about it most days. Until that evening in early December in Mexico City."

He glared at Imelda. She matched it with her own growing fury.

"He refused to change his mind, too obsessed with you and that girl. He even bought a train ticket before telling me. I tried to talk him into staying like I always did. But that time, he refused to see sense and intended to leave with his songs, abandoning me like I meant _nothing_ to him. Héctor wouldn't listen. He wanted to destroy everything with his selfishness. He left me no other options."

Imelda wasn't sure she wanted to hear this after all. The callousness of the man's words clashed against her memories of the two as friends. Even when she didn't like him back then and even though Ernesto had many faults that left her gritting her teeth, the fact that he seemed to care about Héctor redeemed him somewhat in her eyes. And yet even that piece of decency was gone.

She hated the man and knew that he was capable of murder, but his tone just made it clear how thoroughly he believed that it wasn't his fault. He refused to take responsibility for his crimes. Did he truly believe that the rest of the world would be equally cruel? That what he did was reasonable and acceptable?

"When he tried to abandon everything that ever meant anything to us, I offered reassurance that I understood his decision and suggested a toast to our friendship before he left. He didn't notice what was added to his shot glass from across the room. I was nervous that the powder wouldn't dissolve thoroughly in the tequila and that he would spot it in the glass or there would be a gritty texture when he tasted it, but he accepted the drink without comment. He was never the most observant, was he? Otherwise Héctor would have realized what he was giving up by choosing _you_ and _that_ _girl_ over our dream. That he brought it on himself."

Her entire body was rigid. She stared at him, listening to his heartless words. She felt like a string on Héctor's beautiful white guitar, one overtightened and ready to snap.

"Even with the long walk to the train station, I worried the arsenic would be too slow. That I didn't use enough, though I measured out a decent spoonful. But it finally started working when we were close to his destination. A few moments of pain and confusion and then he collapsed in the street, unconscious and never to awaken again. The pain looked stronger than I expected, but he didn't feel it for long. No, I am not a monster nor am I cruel. No violence. No struggle. He never even realized what truly happened until Miguel made the connection to one of my movies."

He didn't seem to notice the horrified expression on the _doctora_ 's face, her cool professional mask slipping. She probably knew what arsenic poisoning could do to someone. Perhaps she'd even treated it in life.

Imelda felt like she should be shouting. She should be insulting Ernesto, his parentage, his skills as a _músico_ , and his shoes. She should be lashing out with the fury threatening to burn her to ash. And yet she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. And her mind was consumed with the image of Héctor in pain, dying of poison offered by the hand of a trusted friend.

"From there, it was easy to fix what his selfish devotion to the two of you nearly destroyed. I took the songs from his suitcase so that they would not be wasted in Santa Cecilia. I dragged him to the closest alleyway, changed him into more ordinary clothes than his charro outfit, and rubbed dirt into the fabric and on his face. Anyone who spotted him would only see a homeless and worthless _vagabundo_. And just as he chose to leave me without any thought of what would happen to me, I left him there to succumb to his fate."

He left him. Héctor was still alive when Ernesto walked away. How long was Héctor alone on the cold streets, dying from poison? Hours? _Days_? Did anyone see him? Did anyone try to help him? Did he ever regain consciousness before the end or did he at least escape further pain? Imelda barely noticed that both the _doctora_ and Officer Inglesias looked uneasy about her now, too wrapped up in her thoughts about the cruel story that Ernesto was reciting.

"If anyone had ever recognized him, I intended to say that he left for a night out on the town and never came back. I would be as shocked as anyone over finding out that he died. Regrettable, but unsurprising for a musician visiting a strange city so far from home. But whoever found and dealt with him did not recognize him from any of our performances. Nor did anyone ask what became of my partner." Ernesto met her gaze and gave her a grin that was tinged with just a hint of vicious cruelty and mocking. "But that should not surprise you, Imelda. We both know that Héctor is quite… _forgettable_."

Imelda didn't even realize she'd moved at all until Ernesto hit the ground with a yelp, her boot in hand and the woman already halfway across the table in pursuit of the dislodged head. Rage and other dark emotions controlled her body, reacting too fast for thought. Even Officer Inglesias managing to grab her and drag Imelda back didn't snap her out of it.

How dare he? _How dare he?_

As she was pulled towards the door, still struggling to get at least another swing at the man, she saw the _doctora_ pick up his lost skull. The previous crack had spread further from the impact and his expression looked pained and terrified.

 _Good_. He deserved worse.

Officer Inglesias didn't let go until they were outside the room and the door closed, hiding Ernesto from her vengeful sight. But she could still see him in her mind. Taunting her about how Héctor almost… How she tried to…

Her body shook as her energy born of hatred gradually faded, leaving her slumping against the wall slightly. She wiped away a few furious tears before clenching her hands at her sides.

"Do you have enough to charge the man?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady even while the rest of her felt differently.

Hesitating briefly, he said, " _Sí_ , Señora. He was not threatened or bribed to speak. He volunteered his testimony freely and with full knowledge that we were listening. We have his confession. He will be charged and will undoubtedly be found guilty."

"And my actions at the end?"

"We'll smooth it over. He has more important things to worry about." He paused briefly. "And I believe anyone in your circumstances would do the same."

And there was that look in the man's eyes. The look that she never wanted directed towards her. The one she absolutely hated and always followed with whispers that were never quiet enough. _Pity_.

Poor Imelda. Her family disowned her; the stubborn girl falling for some crazy musician with nothing.

Poor Imelda. Her husband left town, chasing after a foolish dream and probably a few _señoritas_.

Poor Imelda. She's living in denial, refusing to accept that those letters stopped because that man was never coming back.

Poor Imelda. Left alone with a child and no money, that woman will have no choice except to beg on the streets. Or perhaps even something more distasteful and disgraceful.

Poor Imelda. She thinks she can run a business on her own, that she can survive alone. Perhaps her charitable neighbors can help the unfortunate and pitiful soul when everything crumbles apart, letting them feel like they're such good people while also making them feel better about their own lives in comparison.

_Poor Imelda. Too stubborn, too proud, too sharp-tongued, too aggressive, too outspoken, and too cold-hearted to keep a man, driving off even that crazy and foolish Héctor in the end._

But no matter how much Imelda hated pity, she was too tired to act on it. Physically and emotionally tired. And she couldn't risk making him mad. Getting locked up for attacking Ernesto de la Cruz _and_ Officer Inglesias wouldn't do her any good. And she really wanted to go home and check on her family. She wanted to get away from that lying, murderous _músico_ and let him rot in whatever dark hole they would eventually throw him in.

" _Gracias_ ," she said quietly. "If you don't need me any further, I should be leaving. The gondola lift that will take me back to our neighborhood can grow crowded at this time of day."

* * *

"This is a bit uncomfortable," said Felipe, standing next to the bed awkwardly.

"Because Héctor is lying there like a corpse?" Oscar asked, repositioning his glasses. "Or because we thought for years that he ran out on our sister and Coco when it turns out he was actually murdered?"

"Both."

They shifted uncomfortably, neither of them taking the chair in the room. Both of them were watching over their brother-in-law. Or former brother-in-law. Or former _former_ brother-in-law. They were still working on what exactly they were supposed to call him now. Especially since they'd been kind of avoiding the entire topic and the room itself as much as possible until that point, worrying more about keeping an eye on their older sister than anything else.

Logically, Felipe knew that one of them could have stayed in the workshop with Julio and Rosita. She claimed that they had a new order, a large one. One of them could have helped with that.

But neither of them particularly liked working on things alone or spending much time apart. It would be like going around with half their limbs missing. They needed each other. It was simply the way that they'd always been. From the moment that the twins were born, they'd been together. Even in death, they were inseparable; when Oscar succumbed to the fever that hit them both so hard, Felipe followed within an hour. So when given the choice, they decided to watch over Héctor together.

"He broke her heart," said Felipe quietly. "When he left, he hurt her. She didn't want him to leave. Even before he tried to come back, Héctor hurt her."

"But if he made it home, she would have been all right. She wouldn't have… changed."

Imelda was always proud and stubborn. She was always a force of nature, someone that not even the two of them as young children could get around. And she never did anything partway. Imelda was the type of person who was all or nothing. But after Héctor never came home, they'd watched their older sister grow more closed off, sterner, and more serious. Banning music was only the most obvious change.

Imelda loved the man. Oscar and Felipe saw that much even as children, watching how she brightened and grew lighter in his presence. And he was a lot of fun to have around and could actually tell the twins apart, even when they tried tricks like wearing each other's clothes. They'd approved of Héctor from the start. They would tease the couple since it was their job as younger brothers, but they were happy for their sister. And when she spoke out against their parents and walked out of the house to be with Héctor, they were proud of her. Even if their mamá and papá refused to acknowledge their eldest child, the twins knew she was happy with him.

That made it all the worse when it seemed like Héctor abandoned his family. After giving Héctor her heart and sacrificing so much to be with him, the idea of him breaking that trust was shocking. Oscar and Felipe watched Imelda lash out in pain and grow to hate the man for what he did. And it was heartbreaking. She might be the elder sibling, but they still felt protective of their sister.

And even if abandoning Imelda and Coco didn't sound like the man that they'd thought they knew, it was the only thing that made sense at the time. Everyone figured that if there was an accident or something similar, Ernesto would have sent word. The two of them were best friends and Ernesto would have let them know if something happened to Héctor. The silence meant the choice not to return was voluntary. It meant Héctor could have come home and didn't.

But recently, new information had come to light. It wasn't _Héctor_ who turned out not to be the man they'd believed him to be. Ernesto de la Cruz was the reason that Héctor never made it home.

"How could Ernesto have… killed him?" asked Felipe, rubbing his arm. "They used to be friends. Or even—"

"—almost like brothers," Oscar continued. "Like us… Can you imagine one of us—"

"—turning on the other? No. We could never do something—"

"—so heartless and cruel. And I don't want to think about it too much, Felipe. That kind of—"

"—betrayal? That kind of shock? That would hurt almost as much as dying. At least—"

"—depending on _how_ he did it. Stabbing, strangulation—"

"—drowning, _breaking_ his _neck_ … I mean, Ernesto has always been bigger than Héctor. It would have—"

"—been easy," Oscar said, suppressing a shiver. "Far too easy." He glanced at his twin. "Do you think Imelda will take—"

"—Héctor back? I don't know. She is really worried about him though. I don't know what will happen to her if he doesn't wake up. I don't want to—"

"—see her break again. Not again."

Felipe hesitated a moment before asking, "And Héctor? After everything that happened, after everything she did and _we_ did, keeping him off the _ofrenda_ and not listening to him here, do you think he still—"

"—loves her?" Oscar smiled weakly. "We both remember what he was like when we were children. He _adored_ her."

That was why it was so shocking when he never came back. Héctor wasn't the kind of person to hide how much he cared about Imelda and Coco. He was open and honest about his love. The idea that he could turn his back on his family, that his devotion could shatter so easily or that it might have been a lie the entire time, felt wrong. It was a betrayal against all of them, not just his wife and child.

Instead, they betrayed Héctor by losing faith in the man. Oscar and Felipe sided with Imelda when she lashed out in fury and grief, accepting the whispers of the neighbors as fact and letting it fester. They stood by her because she was their older sister and they followed Imelda's decision. She was the one who lost the most, after all. And in doing so, they turned against Héctor and left him out in the cold.

Hindsight was often very harsh and unforgiving.

"And you saw him that night," Oscar continued. "You saw how he looked at her. No matter what else has changed, Héctor—"

"—is still crazy about her," finished Felipe with a nod before turning to look towards the bed.

Then he froze, narrowing his eyes. Felipe straightened his glasses and looked again. He wasn't completely certain that he was seeing what he thought he was. But he wanted to believe it.

He just needed to make sure first.

"Oscar?" he asked quietly, twitching his head in the right direction.

His twin followed his gaze obediently. And when Oscar's eyes widened in response, Felipe knew that his brother noticed the same thing he did.

Héctor hadn't moved since they'd helped carry him into the house, half-afraid his loose and fragile bones would tumble apart in their hands. There hadn't been a single twitch. He'd been completely limp and lifeless the entire time. For the last several days, there had been absolutely no sign of progress.

But now…

It was subtle and easy to miss. A small detail among the rest. But where once he remained completely limp, his phalanges curled in slightly. His fingers were starting to dig into the quilt.

And as Felipe looked more closely, he noticed an uneasiness to Héctor's body. His limbs had stiffened a little and his face looked tense in his state of unconsciousness. He clearly wasn't awake, but there was still a look of discomfort in his features. Or maybe even the start of pain.

And the glow… It was still present, but not as bright. Felipe could see it visibly dimming before his eyes. After spending so long trapped precariously on the edge of the Final Death, the balance had shifted. And it might have actually shifted in their favor.

Reaching cautiously for his arm, Oscar called quietly, "Héctor?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And how is that for a cliffhanger? But don't get too excited. Just because there's finally a sign of change doesn't mean that everything is perfectly fine just yet. Héctor isn't awake. But the next chapter should reveal more about his current state.
> 
> But don't expect another update quite as fast. This one was about three-fourths done when I posted the previous one. I still have a lot more writing for the next one.
> 
> Edit: One of my readers here with a better understanding of both Spanish as a language and the Mexican culture gave me a small piece of advice. So I've made some minor corrections in terminology. I want to do this story correct, at least as much as possible. And sometimes my Spanish dictionary from high school and one-fourth the genetics just isn't enough.


	10. Reprise

It _hurt_. It hurt so much. He could barely comprehend it.

He was trapped in an exhausted and battered body that seemed to rebel against the very concept of existing. His bones felt like they were shattering and crumbling apart from the inside, like they'd been reduced to dust deep down. The surface of his bones felt raw and overly-sensitive, as if someone scraped his entire body with sandpaper. And his joints felt too tight and stiff, practically on the verge of snapping. They felt like some force was crushing them together, trapping him and leaving them immobile. Not that he had the strength to _try_ and move, but that didn't make it any easier.

Agony. Absolute agony like—

— _As he caught sight of the train station, the discomfort abruptly spiked into pain. He doubled over in agony, something burning and sharp slicing into him. He felt like fire and knives were trying to rip him apart from the inside out. He grabbed at his midsection (_ _ **it hurt, make it stop, make it stop**_ _), but there was nothing there hurting him._

_His friend (_ _**no, no, no)** _ _placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke of food being to blame, taking the guitar case from him and freeing his hand to instinctively dig at the burning, sharp pain—_

— _He'd fallen, tumbling into separate pieces to prevent injuries. But his bones scattered further than expected. One of his ribs, a floating rib that belonged at the bottom of his ribcage, bounced right into the path (_ _ **no, no, no**_ _) of a trolley. A sickening crunch (_ _ **it hurt, it hurt, please, no**_ _) and agony swept through his disjointed part as he screamed. It wasn't just a break (_ _ **pain, so much pain**_ _) like in the past. The trolley crushed it to splinters and dust. Worried voices called out to him, but (_ _ **it hurt, make it stop**_ _) he could only focus on the waves of agony_ —

—Someone was talking. Distant and muffled, but he could hear the sound. He couldn't understand the words. Consciousness, real and true consciousness, remained too far out of his reach.

He tried to focus on the voice. Or voices. So familiar and so similar to each other. He tried to focus on the sound. He tried to focus on anything other than the exhausting pain that seemed to consume him. The pain and the uncomfortable, semi-panicking, and instinctive _wrong_ sensation. As if his barely-intact body needed to do something desperately, but he couldn't remember what it was—

— _He was too small and too young (_ _ **help, please help**_ _) to fight the current. He wasn't supposed to go near the river. None of them were, no matter how fun his friend made it sound with the suggestion. The fact that he tumbled down the bank proved why they weren't supposed to be there. Even worse, he didn't know how to swim yet. He couldn't keep his head above the water._

 _He tried to call for help, but kept choking and coughing **(a**_ _ **ir, need air** )_ _as liquid filled his mouth. He tried to spot his friend up on the bank somewhere, but he kept slipping below the surface. He couldn't hear anything other than the rushing and splashing water._

 _His chest burned as his panicked mind scrambled desperately. It was getting harder (_ _ **cold, tired, need air** )_ _to struggle against the river. His body kept sinking and his short arms and legs weren't enough to keep afloat._

 _He tried to cough out the water from his lungs **(a**_ _ **ir, please, help, need air),** _ _but more and more kept flowing down his throat. His limbs grew still **(t**_ _ **oo heavy, too tired** )_ _while his mind grew dull, unable to reach the surface at all anymore._

 _A loud splash of something large landed right next to him. It wrapped around his middle, firm and solid, dragging him towards the surface and the shore. Coughing and vomiting up the choking liquid as his friend's panicked voice filled his ears, he gasped desperately for the air_ —

—He needed to do something. His body hurt so much and felt so tired, but the impulse remained. A familiar and instinctive impulse.

He couldn't escape the agony that consumed every bone in his body, but there had to be a way to ease the semi-panicked need to act.

* * *

"Héctor?" called Felipe, reaching for the opposite arm of the one Oscar held. "You all right? Can you hear us?"

"I don't think he's awake," Oscar said.

"But something is definitely happening."

"And I don't think he's very comfortable."

Oscar was right. While it was reassuring to see _any_ sign of life from Héctor, they couldn't ignore the clear signs of distress. His face was strained and his body tensed. Something was wrong.

"Can you hear us, Héctor?" Oscar called gently. "Hey, I don't know if it'll help much, but you should really—"

"—try breathing," said Felipe, realizing where his thoughts were going. "We might not need it, but it'll make you feel better. Trust us."

Not long after they ended up in the Land of the Dead, Oscar and Felipe experimented quite a bit. Testing their limits and so on. After all, it wasn't like they could get killed. Though Imelda eventually ran out of patience, put her foot down, and said no more. They weren't technically allowed to disassemble themselves or do dangerous stunts unless it was an emergency. Which was the one good thing about sneaking into the Sunrise Spectacular because they'd been waiting decades for a chance to try their stunt they used against Ernesto's security.

Somewhere between seeing how far they could pull a detached limb back from and seeing how weird it felt to get their bones switched (which was stranger than when they switched their clothing), the two of them tested how long they could stay underwater. It seemed like an interesting idea at the time. They couldn't drown, but the uncomfortable and panicking sensation from not breathing made the whole experience unpleasant. They might not need to breathe, but their bodies tended to react badly to being denied the chance.

Apparently survival instincts remained even when they no longer serve any purpose.

Maybe that was all that was wrong. Maybe if Héctor started breathing, the tension in his body would ease. It was all Felipe could think of to do at the moment.

"I know you're tired," Oscar said gently. "But listen to us, Héctor. You need—"

"—to start breathing again. It'll make you—"

"—feel better. Just focus on what we're saying. Breathe in—"

"—and then out. Nice and steady. You can do it."

Holding onto his arms as tightly as they dared, the two of them tried to coax their brother-in-law to do something that should be happening naturally. Imelda was depending on them to take care of everything while she was gone. They couldn't let her and Héctor down. They had to find a way to help the man.

Felipe wasn't certain if it was luck or if their words were getting through to him, but he saw the moment when things improved further. Héctor's ribcage shifted slightly under the quilt, the unconscious skeleton finally taking a weak and shallow breath. The twins exchanged quick grins at the success.

But their smiles vanished as they heard the breathing fall into unsteady panting. And then a small sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, slipped out. It wasn't just the discomfort of not breathing. Even unconscious, Héctor was in real pain.

* * *

The unease and desperate panic had relented, but it didn't solve everything. It didn't help with the pain.

Everything that touched his body _hurt_. Something covered most of his bones, the painfully-sensitive surface crying out against the weight and the contact. Something or someone held onto his arms, even the gentle pressure agonizingly tight. And as he tried to handle the pain that practically burned across the surface, the sharp brokenness that reached down to the marrow pushed it too far.

It hurt. It hurt more than he could bear—

— _She closed her eyes, still smiling (_ _ **how was she so content, how could she be at peace, it wasn't fair, it was too soon**_ _) as the golden-orange light washed over her. And she allowed it. Tía let her bones dissolve (_ _ **it's not supposed to hurt as much if you don't fight it**_ _) into dust and drift away_ —

— _Then he felt something cold and sharp wash over him (_ _ **no, not yet, I can't**_ _) and his breathing hitched. He could barely (_ _ **don't fall on Chamaco, don't hurt him, move, move**_ _) push himself away before he lost complete control of his shaking limbs. He stumbled and fell back onto the stones, lost in golden light that tried to engulf him as he tried (_ _ **it hurts, hold on, it'll pass, but it hurts**_ _) to keep himself together. His strength fell away and the brief episode passed as suddenly as it struck, leaving him weak and sore. And his final stubborn and desperate hope crumbled_ —

—He would be screaming. If he was truly awake and if he had the strength, he would be screaming from the pain. He desperately wanted it to stop. Please make it stop—

— _The sharp, cold, and intense sensation (_ _ **not again, it hurts, it's worse, make it stop**_ _) swept over him again in a golden light (_ _ **hold on, not yet, I can't let go yet**_ _) and he crumbled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. His breath caught in his ribcage as his body briefly spasmed. As the glow faded from his bones, leaving him on his hands and knees and too wobbly to get back up yet (_ _ **I'm running out of time**_ _), the boy knelt beside him with a worried expression—_

—He didn't want a body. He didn't want to exist. It hurt _everywhere_. The nothingness didn't have pain.

Those who remembered him anchored him to reality, pulling him out of the nothing and making him stay. They made him exist. They made returned him to his barely-intact body. But it hurt more than he could handle.

If he couldn't return to the numbness of nonexistence, could he at least slip from semi-consciousness into true unconsciousness? That might at least let him escape the pain wracking his exhausted bones.

* * *

"What are we going to do?" asked Oscar, trying to ignore the quiet whimpers, the pained gasps, and the tension in Héctor's body. He was worried enough already. "We have to help him."

"How?" Felipe asked.

The twins exchanged looks, their thoughts racing. The small sounds of distress made something in their empty ribcages twist uncomfortably. They couldn't leave their brother-in-law in this condition. They needed to fix it.

Oscar's gaze twitched briefly to the bedside table, catching a glimpse of the glass bottle. The bottle that Dr. García left behind, the one they heard him describe as something to help with pain. Oscar grabbed it, the liquid sloshing inside from the abrupt motion.

"Getting him to drink a spoonful or however much isn't going to be easy while he's unconscious," Felipe said as his twin read the handwritten instructions carefully.

"Head down to the kitchen and find a glass," suggested Oscar. "We can measure it out in that. Less chance of spilling it. And it's not like taking too much would _kill_ him."

Eating and drinking didn't make much logical sense for skeletons. The dead didn't have stomachs or even throats. It should fall out whenever anything goes in their mouth. It should land on the ground below whenever they try. And yet they could eat and drink like they did in life, the food or liquid vanishing after it went in their mouth. And it was absolutely possible to get drunk somehow. It didn't make much logical sense, but it disappeared as they swallowed and they would feel a sense of fullness where their guts used to be.

If they could get the medicine into his mouth, then Héctor should be fine.

Felipe nodded and took off running down the stairs. Thankfully, most of the family wasn't in the house and the racing footsteps wouldn't be enough to disturb Victoria sleeping upstairs. More panicked and worried family members wouldn't help the situation at all. Felipe would get what they needed and they would sort things out.

"It's all right, Héctor," Oscar said quietly. "We'll give you some medicine and you'll feel better."

The only response that he received was the soft pained sounds and weak gasps. Héctor's body looked rigid and uncomfortable. If he still possessed muscles, Oscar knew they would be straining and tensed. Maybe it was for the best that Héctor wasn't actually awake. If his fingers were already digging into the quilt, Oscar could only imagine how bad it would be if he was conscious.

"I know it hurts. I know," he said, trying to sooth the skeleton the best that he could. "The medicine will help. And Imelda will be back soon. It'll be all right."

"Got it," called Felipe as he ran back in, a small glass in his hand.

* * *

Everything kept shifting chaotically, bleeding together until he couldn't separate them. But no matter which was real and which were memories, the pain remained constant. Constant and intense—

— _They kept him across the room from his detached limb, a couple of_ primos _holding him in place. He tried to keep still, but each time the short and grumpy skeleton tried to line up (_ _ **it hurt, stop, please stop**_ _) the bone fragments, a new spike (_ _ **no, it hurts, no, no**_ _) of pain shot through his leg. He couldn't stop from flinching and yelping, instinctively struggling to get away from what was hurting him._

 _Gruff words of reassurance as his leg was bound (_ _ **won't heal, nearly forgotten, arm still cracked**_ _) came from his grumpy friend while the_ primos _comforted him as much as possible. With enough duct tape to stabilize the injury (_ _ **an accident, part of one of the shanties collapsed, at least the beam landed on me instead of Prima, they'll have to fix her house later**_ _), he should be able to walk. Maybe it would even dull to a more tolerable ache instead of the sharp pain eventually._

 _And he needed to be able to walk (_ _ **I want to go home, I want to** _ _**see** _ **míja,** _**I have to make it**_ _) if he wanted to cross the bridge in a few months._

 _Another jolt of pain made him nearly jerk out of their grip, biting back a string of sharp words_ —

—Please let it stop. He needed it to stop. The pain was too much.

He was so tired. And it hurt so much. He didn't care how it stopped. Nonexistence would be a kindness. The silent, empty numbness that memories pulled him back from would be better. Anything to stop the pain.

Something pressed against him mouth, a familiar shape—

— _But while clearly disappointed, his best friend seemed to understand. The man offered him a toast (_ _ **don't touch it, don't drink it, don't drink it**_ _) to show that there were no hard feelings. He accepted the shot glass (_ _ **no, don't, no, no, don't drink**_ _) and the soft clink of glass followed his friend's words. And with that, he brought the glass to his mouth and (_ _ **no, no, no**_ _) swallowed the tequila, relieved that their friendship remained intact—_

—No, no, no!

Panic rejoined the pain. He needed to go home. He needed to see his girls.

Don't drink it. He couldn't drink it—

— _He could almost ignore the way his stomach seemed unsettled and uncomfortable with guilt (_ _ **with poison**_ _) and how he kept having to swallow._

 _As he caught sight of the train station, the discomfort abruptly spiked into pain. He doubled over in agony, something burning and sharp slicing into him. He felt like fire and knives were trying to rip him apart from the inside out. He grabbed at his midsection **(it**_ _ **hurt, make it stop, make it stop),** _ _but there was nothing there hurting him._

 _His friend **(n**_ _ **o, no, no** )_ _placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke of food being to blame, taking the guitar case from him and freeing his hand to instinctively dig at the burning, sharp pain. His head pounded with an unsteady rhythm, his ears filled with his loud heartbeat and a dull roar. His fingers tingled strangely as he clenched the fabric of his clothes, but the pain overwhelmed everything else. It seemed to sweep over him in sickening waves as he struggled to get control over the sensation, gasping against the agony._

 _His vision blurred, the edges going dark. The burning and sharp pain kept growing worse, agonizingly intense. He fell to his knees as he lost his hold on his suitcase. And as the pain reached an unbearable state **(m**_ _ **ake it stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, I want to go home, make it stop, stop, stop** ),_ _he—_

—No!

Pain, panic, and desperation fought for dominance.

There were voices and hands, the contact agonizing as they supported his skull and tried to force open his jaw. He didn't have the strength to fight back, to escape, or to even wake into full consciousness. But no matter how exhausted he was or how much pain ravaged his body, he couldn't drink it. He couldn't drink it.

He needed to go home. He promised. He just wanted to go home.

Don't drink it.

* * *

"Héctor, you _have_ to drink," urged Felipe "Can you hear us?"

While they'd already known that his body was rigid and tense, they didn't expect his jaw to lock closed when they brought the glass to his mouth. They didn't even think he had the strength to clench them so tightly, not after everything that happened. Now Héctor's gasps came out as frantic and pained hisses between his teeth. The sound was not even a slight improvement.

And while Oscar supported his skull enough to raise to angle it make the process easier and Felipe tried to press the glass of the reddish-brown liquid they'd measured out to his mouth, neither of them could force him to drink. Not without risking injury. His bones were still fragile and cracking his jaw in the attempt would only make things worse.

"Please, Héctor," Oscar coaxed desperately. "Just drink a little. You need to let us help you. We—"

"—don't want to see you in pain," said Felipe.

How were they supposed to fix this? Héctor was hurting and they couldn't get him to open his mouth. They couldn't give him the medicine to make him feel better. Unless he let them, they couldn't help.

Why did this happen while they were watching over their brother-in-law and Imelda was gone? They desperately needed her now. She would know how to help Héctor.

"Come on," Oscar continued. "We don't—"

"—know what else to do. Please—"

"—open your mouth. Just a crack."

The distressed and pained sound wasn't much of a response. It was too tired and pitiful to belong to the young man who used to tease and encourage their wilder tendencies as children, helping to earn their approval of the _músico_ interested in their sister. It just felt wrong. The pain wasn't alone; there was also a hint of fear in the sounds. Felipe suspected that if Héctor was awake and had the strength, he would be struggling against them.

They wanted to make it stop. They wanted to help him. They hated seeing anyone like this, let alone someone that they knew. And especially someone who was once and might still be family.

"Please, Héctor," said Felipe. "Please drink this."

* * *

Her mind felt like it was in a haze as Imelda reached home. She knew that she should check on things in the workshop, that she still had a business to run even if the rest of the family could handle the daily aspects without supervision.

But with Ernesto's words still ringing in her mind, Imelda couldn't even start to think about shoes. She didn't know if she would ever be able to forget the vivid picture that he painted. The initial anger had transformed into horror during the trip back. Despite her best efforts, his description of Héctor's murder continued to haunt her.

She stepped into the house instead of the workshop, trying to reclaim a sense of stability and calm. She wouldn't let lying murderer ruin or corrupt anything else. He would not pollute this home with his selfish and cowardly remarks. The house and workshop were places of security, control, and familiar comfort. He couldn't not touch it. She refused to think about him any longer that day. Ernesto de la Cruz and his vile actions had no place within these walls.

This was their home. This was where her family lived. It was safe. They were safe. He couldn't harm anyone she loved within this place. Never again.

As Imelda started heading upstairs, feeling some of the tension melting away the more she pushed the man from her thoughts, part of her contemplated the idea of a short nap. It wasn't a normal impulse for her, no matter how worn out she might become during the day. Resting while others worked went against her nature. But if she caught up on some sleep, then she could keep watch over Héctor that night. The rest of the family shouldn't have to keep staying up so late. A short nap might help her enough that she could take over the task.

When her foot hit the top stair, Imelda froze. All the instincts that she'd honed through her experiences as a mamá shrieked at her. Something was wrong.

It took a moment for her to see the change. But when she did, it sent a terrifying chill all the way down to her marrow.

The glowing light was no longer coming from her room.

No. Please, _no_.

Panic fluttered in her chest as she lunged towards the doorway, thoughts of an empty bed and fading memories filling her mind. But her fears proved unfounded as she glimpsed the room.

Though the truth wasn't completely comforting either.

Her brothers knelt beside her bed, completely focused on the unconscious skeleton still tucked in. Even at their current angle, Imelda could see their identical expressions of worry. While Oscar supported Héctor's skull, Felipe held a glass of reddish-brown liquid to his brother-in-law's mouth. Both of them were whispering and pleading.

As for Héctor, the light from his bones had dimmed until it could be easily ignored. And he no longer looked completely limp and lifeless. Now, tension filled every joint to the point that she fully expected something to snap. His expression had shifted to something strained by pain.

And he was breathing. He was breathing again.

She should have been relieved by that fact, but the tiny sounds of pain hit her hard. He shouldn't be making those sounds. He wouldn't let those weak and heart-breaking sounds escape if he was awake. Not out of _machismo_ or anything like that. She knew him better than that. He just wouldn't want to worry those around him. She never wanted to hear Héctor hissing and whimpering with so much distressed pain.

"Héctor, please open your mouth," Felipe pleaded. "The medicine will help."

For a moment, Imelda didn't see the skeleton lying on her bed. She saw the scene that Ernesto described so recently. She saw her husband collapsing in the street in agony, betrayed and abandoned by his closest friend. She saw Héctor dying alone in a strange city and far away from anyone who cared for him.

Then she blinked and the image vanished. But she still saw Héctor, unconscious and in pain. And Imelda… Rational thought didn't even have a chance to surface before she instinctively reacted.

Oscar and Felipe yelped in surprise and scrambled back as she moved past them, her brothers not even noticing her presence until that moment. Imelda sat on the edge of the bed and carefully pulled Héctor up until he leaned against her, his head resting against her sternum. She wrapped one arm around to support his stiff figure while gently brushing his hair from his face with her free hand.

" _Shhh_ … It's all right," she said softly. " _Cálmese_. You're safe. You're safe, Héctor. _Cálmese. Shhh_ … I know it hurts. I know. But we're here. We want to help. We're here. You're safe. You're home. It's all right. _Cálmese_."

She didn't even think about what she was saying. Imelda just kept up a constant stream of reassuring words as she felt his ribs shifting beneath her fingers, his breathing too uneven and desperate. She just kept talking and trying to drown out the sounds of distress with her voice.

* * *

The hands that kept touching and holding him _hurt_. All contact hurt at that moment. And when they pulled him upright, _agony_ jolted through every bone. Movement made everything _worse_.

And it only made his panic escalate. He was going to come apart. He could feel it. He was going to _come apart_.

Then words… Gentle, soothing, familiar… He couldn't make out the words, but the voice washed over him in a constant stream, soft and warm. He _knew_ that voice—

— _His fingers fumbled, the tune stumbling from the beat and his friend glared at the interruption. It might only be practice, but the older boy didn't appreciate the mistake. Not in such a public place. But he couldn't help it. Something snagged his focus away and he couldn't resist the pull._

 _Someone started singing softly to the music and the sound sent a shiver of awe through him. The voice (_ _ **beautiful, breath-taking, warm, joyful**_ _) was mesmerizing. For a moment, he couldn't even move. It reminded him of the first time he wandered down to the plaza on tiny legs and heard someone_ really _play the guitar, as if he found something he'd been missing for his entire life and could finally fill that empty gap._

 _His eyes moved across the plaza, searching for the source. It had to be close. It took a moment, but then he saw_ her.

 _A girl (_ _ **pretty, graceful, smiling**_ _) moved through the crowd, twin toddlers holding onto her hands as she followed after her mother. Her dress looked more expensive than any of the clothes found at the_ Orfanato de la Cruz, _including those saved for church. And she wore ribbons in her hair, the light catching the bright colors and making her dark hair even more lovely. His best friend was older and liked looking at_ señoritas _, but he never noticed them much. Until now. He couldn't help staring at her._

 _But when she noticed the music stopped, her wistful smile shifted to a frown of confusion. And when she saw him watching, the girl scowled (_ _ **embarrassed to be observed, not comfortable with an unexpected audience** )_ _and turned away._

 _As she disappeared into the crowd with her family, she didn't seem to realize that she was walking away with his heart_ —

— _She (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) glared at her_ _pap_ _á with tears in her eyes. The rest of her family stared in shock and horror, the man's ultimatum too much for any of them to comprehend. No one ever thought it would come to this, no matter how stubborn she and her_ _pap_ _á (_ _ **the man didn't keep his family safe during the Revolution by surrendering easily, even Santa Cecilia wasn't completely safe, though luckier than some places**_ _) both might be._

 _The heavy words hung over them like an ominous weight, ready to drop and crush someone: she must have nothing more to do with that_ músico _or she would no longer be part of the family._

 _He felt his heart sink as he dropped his head. He should have known better than to hope for the impossible. He couldn't even look at her ( ****_ _ **she deserves better than me anyway, it was never going to end differently, everyone said so, I have caused enough trouble for this family** ) _ _as he started to pull his hand away._

_She tightened her grip, keeping him in place._

_He turned, confused (_ _ **what is she doing, didn't she hear her** _ _**pap**_ _ **á, I don't understand**_ _) by her actions. The two of them had discussed a future together and it seemed promising until he tried to speak to her_ _pap_ _á about blessing the relationship, to try and bridge the gap that always seemed to keep her parents from accepting his presence (_ _ **accusing him, claiming he couldn't be trusted, saying that he wouldn't stay with her, thinking he wouldn't be loyal, not understanding how much he loved her**_ _) around their daughter._

_But he knew that dream shattered the moment the ultimatum was spoken. He couldn't ask her to give up her family. He wasn't worth it. He loved her too much to ask such a thing._

_But she wasn't letting go._

_Her face (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) showed a mixture of anger, grief and determination as she glared at her_ _pap_ _á. She refused to waver in whatever decision she had in mind_.

 _Quiet and strained, she stated that families were supposed to support one another. Asking why the man couldn't be on her side. Her_ _pap_ _á barely acknowledged her words, his arms crossed as the man waited for her stubbornness to surrender to her family loyalty. There was only one way that this would turn out. It wasn't really a choice. She would walk back into her family home and he would have to leave, trailing broken fragments of his shattered heart behind._

_But she wasn't letting go._

_Her hand shook slightly as she gripped his, but there was no sign of it in her gaze. And then she answered the ultimatum, her voice steady and firm (_ _ **what did she say, did I hear her right, I can't believe it** ) _ _as his heart skipped a beat._

 _The reactions of her family hit strongly. Her younger twin brothers grinned proudly with only a hint of sadness for what they were losing. Her mamá collapsed into tears, crumbling to the ground. And her_ _pap_ _á… The man staggered back as if struck before his face hardened. And then her_ _pap_ _á turned and marched away, not even looking back. Her mamá followed more slowly, obeying her husband's decree with more reluctance. Her brothers rebelled, wrapping her in a tight hug and whispering reassurances of their love for her._

_Guilt churned in his gut ( **I broke this, I tore apart this family, I always wanted a family and I destroyed hers** ) as he watched them walk away. Even though the only family that he'd ever known was his best friend, he knew how precious it was ( **love,** **joy, belonging, never alone, comfort, love** ) and couldn't imagine anything more important._

_But she still held his hand. And even with the sadness in her eyes, he saw no regrets. She never second-guessed any decision. Never. She chose him **(s**_ _**he wants me, she loves me, how am I this lucky, can this be real** )_ _over her papá's harsh conditions. She accepted his nervous and hopeful proposal even against her parents' desires. And that brought a smile to his face._

 _He pulled her into a hug, holding her_ ( **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma)** _close as he tried to let her silently know how much he appreciated what she'd just done and how sorry he was that she was forced into that decision. He felt her shake slightly **(**_ ** _it was hard, it hurt her, I'm sorry, she's so strong, always so strong and determined, it's all right, let me be strong instead, let me support you until the hurt stops)_** _in his embrace, but it didn't take her long to rest her head against his chest and wrap her arms around him tightly in return. And if he felt wetness on his shirt, he wouldn't say a word if she wished to ignore it._

_She wanted to marry him. She wanted a life with him, to be his family and to stand with him. She wanted him. It was enough to terrify him and overwhelm him with sheer lovesick joy. A future with her made him happier than he could have possibly imagined._

_She loved him enough to give up everything else just so she could be with him._

_So he planned to spend the rest of his life making her happy_ —

—He knew that voice.

Warm, firm, steady, comforting… Beautiful…

Familiar and safe.

The pain didn't ease. Everything still _hurt_. It hurt so much. His entire body still rebelled against the very concept of existing, shrieking in absolute agony. He could feel how utterly broken it was down to the core.

But the panic ebbed as the voice washed over him and sank into his bones. He couldn't resist the feeling of safety, comfort, being wanted, and…

Home.

This was what he wanted. This was what he needed desperately.

And even with the agony in every bone in his body, even with the way being held by steady hands hurt so much, he felt himself relaxing a little. He felt safe and home.

* * *

" _Cálmese_ ," Imelda soothed gently. "You're home. You're safe. _Cálmese_. We're all here with you, Héctor. It's all right."

She kept talking, not pausing and not thinking about the words. She kept talking gently, keeping her hand on his ribcage and trying to block out the sounds of his pain. She kept talking to the unconscious skeleton, trying to comfort him as much as possible.

Imelda glanced towards her brother, giving Felipe a small nod. He handed the glass to her, the reddish-brown liquid giving off a bitter scent and a hint of _cempazúchitl_ trying to mask it. She doubted that it would taste good, but medicine rarely proved to be appetizing. And as long as it eased his pain, that was all that mattered.

Bringing the glass back to his mouth, Imelda coaxed, "Come on, Héctor. You need to trust me and drink this. It's safe. Nothing is going to hurt you here. You're safe. It's all right, _cariño_. It's all right. It'll help. _Cálmese_. I've got you."

* * *

Something pressed against his mouth again, nearly sparking off that panic again. But while part of him kept shrieking not to drink, the reassuring voice kept talking. It grounded him, anchoring him almost as much as the memories that pulled him back. He kept listening to the familiar sound, trying to focus on the feeling of safety and belonging rather than the agony—

— _He suspected that she was normally a morning person (_ _ **too motivated to sleep the day away, she wouldn't waste it**_ _), but he found himself waking up first. He didn't immediately move though. He didn't want to wake her. Besides, he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that what happened was real and not part of a dream._

 _He'd wanted this (_ _ **for so long, almost since I met her, before I even started caring about** _ **señoritas** _) and she'd wanted this. She'd wanted this enough to trade everything else. And it finally happened._

_They were married._

_He stared at the woman **(my wife** )_ _lying next to him, breathing slowly and her face **(so beautiful, so perfect** ) completely peaceful. She'd been gorgeous for the wedding, wearing her most beautiful dress **(her brothers were a true blessing, they snuck out her belongings from her old home, wouldn't let their sister be left with nothing** )_ _while he borrowed his friend's charro suit ( **a little big, but it was fancier than my own, I wanted to look nice for her** )_ _for the big day. And she looked so happy the entire time that he could barely hear the words being spoken. It was like she was the only person in the whole world and nothing else mattered until the end, when he realized that they were truly husband and wife._

 _Neither of them had been completely certain how to handle what came next (_ _ **nervous, anxious, completely inexperienced**_ _) and there wasn't really much guidance for them once they ended up in the bedroom (_ _ **the more risqué songs not really helpful, my best friend's experience and advice even**_ **less** _ **helpful**_ _) alone with each other. They tried to combine their knowledge, but it wasn't much. Her mamá and the other_ señoritas _she knew had made it sound unpleasant for the woman (_ _ **I don't want that, I never want that, I want her happy**_ _) while men with too much to drink made it sound rough and violent, more of an attack rather than anything to do with love. By the time they slipped out of the beautiful clothes they wore at the church, neither of them felt any more confident about what they were doing._

 _But they were together and they took their time, trying to figure it out and see what made the other comfortable and happy. And in the end **(love, want, pleasure, belonging, love** )_ _, it seemed to work out._

 _And now, as light streamed through the window and bounced off her dark hair, he couldn't stop staring at her. She was many things **(incredible, smart, brave, strong, determined, beautiful, talented** ),_ _but rarely was she so open and vulnerable. She could be soft when necessary **(soft and kind, warm, gentle** )_ _and she could be honest **(speaking her mind, not hesitating, not holding back, never questioning her choices** )._ _But this was different._

 _Lying next to him under the thin blanket, her unbound hair ruffled and messy **(still beautiful, always beautiful, always breathtaking** ),_ _and sleeping soundly as the sun rose further above the horizon, there was a feeling of defenselessness that seemed foreign to the powerful and forceful woman_ **(** **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** ) _that he'd just married. He could feel it though. He couldn't explain it exactly, but he knew that he could hurt her. That he could hurt her so badly. And that by marrying him and lying in his bed like this, she was both placing herself completely at his mercy and trusting him not to hurt her._

_But then, hadn't he done the exact same thing the moment he gave her his heart when they were both little more than children?_

_He reached his arm over and carefully pulled her closer, earning only the smallest groan of complaint. He pulled her tight against his body **(** **soft, warm, love),** settling her head under his chin and half curling around her. His heartbeat and hers set out a steady and easy rhythm, the song just waiting for the melody to start._

_He would never hurt her. Never. Not with his hand, not with his actions, and not with his words. She might drive him crazy sometimes, but she was everything to him._

_She was all of his love, his life, and his soul._

_Not quite awake, she tried to press herself even closer to him. A smile crept across his face. This was where he belonged. With her_ —

— _Laughter filled their home, weaving into a duet with his guitar. Fabric swirled as his wife (_ **mi amor, mi vida, mi alma** _) and child (_ **míja** _) danced to his lively tune. He wasn't playing a true song; only improvising whatever felt right in the moment. His audience didn't seem to mind though._

 _His little girl **(sweet,**_ _ **cheerful, wonderful** )_ _bounced and twirled around, keeping to the beat even in her energetic enthusiasm. Someday she would be just as talented at dancing as her mamá, whose dancing_ _ **(graceful, enchanting, mesmerizing** )_ _was only outdone by her singing **(breathtaking, awe-inspiring, warm, beautiful** )._ _Neither of them could hide their bright grins even if they wanted to._

 _Plucking out a quick flourish, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his wife's cheek. That earned a giggle from his little girl, who ran over and tugged at his clothes. Unable to resist the child_ ( **míja** _ **, my precious little one**_ _), he crouched down to her level while his playing never faltered. His daughter used the opportunity to give her own small kiss to his nose._

 _Certainly not about to be outdone, he leaned over his guitar **(a gift from my wife, beautiful and treasured, perfect for lullabies** )_ _and quickly peppered the girl's small face with kisses until his daughter nearly fell over from happy giggles. He ended up laughing in response and the music fumbled to a stop. His wife just stared down at her silly family, unable to completely hide the way a smile **(lovely, warm, bright** )_ _tugged at her mouth._

_She plucked up their daughter, balancing the girl on her hip with the ease of long practice. He stood back up a little more slowly, smiling at both of them._

_How did he end up so blessed?_

_Setting his guitar aside, he stepped over to them. And he wrapped his arms around Imelda and Coco in a hug_ —

—Imelda. Coco.

Two names echoed out of the chaos, confusion, and pain. He still couldn't hold onto his own, but he remembered those two.

Coco. His daughter. The person who remembered him and kept him from slipping out of existence. The first to pull him back out of the nothing, anchoring him with memories.

Imelda. His wife. The comforting and gentle voice that seemed so close and so far away. The source of the steady stream of words that he couldn't quite understand, but found himself clinging to desperately.

Familiar. Safe. Warm.

Not alone. Belonging.

Love.

Everything still hurt. The agony didn't stop. But for just a moment, it didn't matter. Something deep within his jumbled and chaotic mind fell calm.

It was all right. He was home. He made it home. It was over.

He didn't have to resist anymore.

Something bitter poured into his mouth, a thin trickle that was swallowed without thought. As it disappeared, it was gradually replaced by a sensation of coolness. Not cold, but cool.

Slowly, far too slowly, the cool sensation began to spread and sooth the sharp pain that tried to consume him. He would have cried at the relief if he was in any condition to do anything.

As the agony eased with spreading feeling of cool numbness, exhaustion could finally take control. It wrapped around him like a blanket, carrying him down from his confused semi-conscious state towards true and restful unconsciousness.

Sleep. Actual sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are wondering exactly what was in the green bottle, let's just say that doctors in the Land of the Dead don't necessarily use identical options to those used in life. After all, there are some major differences to work out. Like the fact they're limited in the methods they can use to deliver the medicine. After all, you can't just hook up an IV due to the lack of veins. On the other hand, you also don't have to worry about someone overdosing or causing liver damage or similar problems. Add in the fact that there is clearly some form of magic in the environment since a flower petal and blessings can be used to transport children between worlds and you end up with some really interesting potential.
> 
> So while Dr. García's painkiller might have originated as a more traditional medication during life, it has been tweaked over the decades into something a bit more skeleton specific. And it would probably be a bad idea to give it to someone alive. Especially since Dr. García half-expects Héctor not to recover and gave them the same stuff he does for people suffering the Final Death, focusing on providing something strong enough to keep him from suffering.
> 
> Similar to a refrain, "reprise" means to repeat a phrase or verse or to return to the original theme. Considering that this is another section with plenty of flashbacks that keep repeating for poor Héctor, it seemed to fit.


	11. Calmato

Felipe and Oscar stood back, letting their sister take control of the situation. They knew she could fix things. Imelda would know what to do. So they stayed back as she pulled Héctor into her arms, whispering gentle and soothing words as he whimpered in pain. They waited silently, barely breathing as they watched.

And when Héctor's clenched jaw relaxed enough for his mouth to open slightly and she carefully poured a trickle of medicine into him, they instantly knew that their faith had been rewarded.

"There you go," Imelda said gently, setting the empty glass back on the bedside table. " _Shhh_ … You're all right. You did good. Now we wait until it works. I know it hurts. I know. But it'll stop soon. It's all right, Héctor. You're safe. You're home. _Shhh_ … It'll stop hurting soon. I promise, _cariño_."

Oscar and Felipe exchanged quick glances. She seemed to be talking without thinking about the actual words. They doubted that Imelda realized what she'd just said. They doubted she realized what she called Héctor.

She'd always used those types of terms of endearment more sparingly than her husband. Mostly for her daughter, grandchildren, and so on and only to an extent. They remembered how Héctor could almost go overboard with how he expressed his love and devotion to her, the words " _mi amor_ " or " _mi vida_ " or " _mi alma_ " falling from his lips as naturally as breathing. Or like a familiar and beloved song, the gentle refrain crafted from the various ways he referred to his wife. Imelda preferred to be a little less poetic. The closest that she came to matching him was insults tinged with affection that took away the bite. When she did call him anything sweet and adoring, it always seemed to mean more.

So hearing it now, hearing her call Héctor " _cariño_ " after so long, wasn't something they could ignore or forget.

It took longer than any of them wished for any sign of change. Imelda kept whispering comforting words, holding him close as the medicine started taking effect. Gradually, the small sounds of pain began to quiet. Tension slowly melted out of Héctor's strained bones, his frame visibly relaxing even as Felipe saw the same thing happening with Imelda. His fingers loosened from the quilt, growing limp once more. And eventually his uneven gasps smoothed out until his breathing settled into something calm and slow, causing Imelda's expression to soften and her voice to finally grow quiet.

Héctor was sleeping. Not unconscious like before. He was actually resting peacefully.

For a moment, the twins were satisfied to simply watch. Héctor didn't look like a lifeless corpse anymore. And Imelda's relief was palpable. She stared down at the skeleton in her arms, her eyes soft and her expression gently. They weren't even certain she remembered that there was anyone else in the room. Neither of the twins were eager to disturb this moment.

Felipe eventually gave Oscar a quick glance, twitching his head at the door. Their sister deserved a little privacy and they should take care of a few things.

Keeping his voice quiet, Felipe said, "Imelda?" She looked up slowly, her expression shifting. "We're going to get Dr. García. He told us—"

"—to let him know if anything changes," Oscar continued, his voice equally soft. "And this certainly—"

"—counts as a change."

They could also stop by the workshop and inform Julio and Rosita. And convince them _not_ to charge up to see what happened. Imelda and Héctor deserved some time alone and undisturbed, even if he wasn't awake for it. After three days of uncertainty, he was finally showing signs of improvement. If they knew their sister, then she needed some time alone to deal with the fallout of everything. Not to mention whatever happened with the police earlier…

Well, whatever it was, she could handle it. Imelda could handle almost anything. And things were going better. That should help.

Granted, they did know that their sister. They knew her very well and had glimpsed enough to know that she wasn't always honest about how much something affected her. But maybe her more protective nature would win out over anything else that might be going on in her skull. Hopefully she would focus on the relief that Héctor was improving. Her expression was getting a little difficult to decipher though…

She didn't say a word to them, but Imelda gave her brothers a slow nod before dropping her gaze back down to her long-estranged husband. The twins exchanged looks once more, trying to decide if they _should_ be concerned about her after all. But they did need to contact Dr. García. So they slipped back out of the room.

* * *

In…

And out…

In…

And out…

Imelda kept her hand resting lightly on his ribs, focusing on the feeling of Héctor's breathing. His ribs, far too much like weak twigs that could snap under pressure, shifted slightly as his chest rose and fell. Even with the fragility, the sensation stirred memories that she thought were long since banished from her mind. It reminded her of when they were both alive and young, lying in bed together; her husband asleep while she remained content to curl against him. The last time she held Héctor close, there had been warm skin over those ribs and a steady heartbeat. She kept her fingers on his sternum, the feeling of Héctor breathing beneath her phalanges both familiar and new.

In…

And out…

In…

And out…

Slow, shallow, and tired, each breath seemed to take too much strength from the quiet figure. As if the very act of breathing exhausted him. But Héctor was breathing now. He felt more present and steady than before. Even with the remaining brittleness she could feel in his bones, he seemed more solid as his ribs moved in and out. And he wasn't in pain anymore. Exhausted and weak, but not in pain like before.

He wasn't going to disappear. That thought came through the strongest. Héctor was no longer on the brink of the Final Death. He wasn't lifeless and empty. Coco and Miguel managed to pull off the impossible, ensuring that he wouldn't be forgotten. Not yet. And now he was showing signs of improvement. He was actually recovering.

In…

And out…

Héctor would survive. And probably wake up in the near future.

She closed her eyes and took a shaking breath of her own. Imelda had been focusing solely on the present and the past. Which had still been a lot to think about. Any consideration for the future had been short-term and immediate. But now, faced with the first reassuring hint of his recovery, she would have to ask herself an important question.

What now?

It was one thing to call him the love her life or to throw herself into his arms during the heat of the moment. It was quite another to consider what should happen once _Día de Muertos_ passed.

In…

And out…

She loved Héctor. Always had and always would. But even with every revealed truth drawing the vicious spite from the ancient wound, not all the pain of Héctor leaving had faded. She couldn't completely forgive that. Not yet. Ernesto kept him from coming home, but Héctor chose to walk out that door. He didn't mean for his family to suffer, for her to struggle and fight and claw out a life for their daughter when everything seemed determined to work against her. He didn't mean for it to happen and Ernesto ensured that it happened, but he still left. She tried to direct most of her anger against that murderer, but ninety-six years was a long time.

She couldn't pretend those years never happened. Even the truth couldn't turn back time. They couldn't recapture those happy and song-filled days. Those days were gone.

Four years. Their wedding was January 22, 1917 while their daughter was born December 8, 1917. Imelda could never forget either of those dates, no matter how much she'd tried with the former. She and Héctor were only married for four years before he walked out the door a poisoned glass of tequila later left her an unaware widow.

There were joyful days before; a sweet boy with a guitar trying his best to coax out a smile from her and the time period after her parents disowned her before the wedding, where he did everything in his power to reassure her that everything would be all right. But as husband and wife, they were only allowed a few short years together. Beautiful and wonderful years filled with love, music, dancing, laughter, tears, whispers on pillows, gentle hugs, passionate kisses, late nights, early mornings, arguments giving way to apologies, compromises and balance, parenting challenges and joys, and everything in between. Those four years were full of so many precious moments, but they were only a tiny part of her life.

In…

And out…

In…

And out…

She was alive for fifty years after Héctor disappeared. And those years were just as full and impactful. Raising Coco, creating and building a business that spanned generations, realizing that she didn't _need_ someone's help to make a meaningful life, and keeping her growing family together and protected all affected her. They affected her just as much as a lifetime without Héctor and avoiding music. It changed her. She couldn't pretend that it didn't. She wasn't the same young woman that Héctor fell in love with so long ago.

And with every new discovery or explanation that she learned, it became more and more clear that she was not alone in that. The ninety-six years of being dead and separated weren't kind to him either. Her hand drifted gently across his ribcage until her fingers brushed across the medical tape binding the broken bone together. Héctor's time in death would have left marks on him just as her time in life did. He might have died young, but she couldn't expect him to be the same young man who walked out of their house so long ago.

In…

And out…

They couldn't go back to the way things used to be. Neither of them could go back to those days. They weren't the same anymore. It hurt to admit it, but Imelda knew better than to deny the truth.

Not that he would want to return to those days. Not after everything that had happened. Not when she didn't trust Héctor, believing so easily that he would abandon his family because of musical ambition when Imelda knew him better than anyone else. Not when she kept him from being remembered by their family, tearing his face from the family _foto_ , denying the use of his name, and banishing his presence from the _ofrenda_. And not when Imelda drove him away in death, refusing to listen or even look at him.

It would have hurt him too much. And there would have been anger under all that pain, no matter how much guilt and quiet affection that she saw that night. Héctor was always open when it came to love, happiness, excitement, and similar feelings, but she remembered how he would try to hide the more painful emotions. Fear, sadness, and anger would be shrugged off most of the time, concealed before they could affect those around him. And he had more immediate concerns that night. Just because she didn't see the anger and hate didn't mean it wasn't there. It _had_ to be there.

Love and hate weren't mutually exclusive. She knew that better than most.

He didn't tell her. Héctor didn't even try to tell her how close he was to the Final Death. He didn't try to seek her out on what could have been his final night. Perhaps he truly believed that she wouldn't care that he was about to disappear, that she could be that completely indifferent? Or even worse, that she would be _happy_ to know that he was about to be forgotten? Or perhaps he was too angry to face the one responsible for ensuring that their family wouldn't remember him.

In…

And out…

In…

And out…

Imelda opened her eyes slowly, studying his face in silence. With the unnatural light dimmed, she could make out the brilliant colors of his facial markings. And with his skull resting against her collarbone, it was quite easy to take in the sight. Even faded, she could see how well the bright and various shades reflected his energetic and lively personality. She could only imagine how eye-catching they must have been before decades of being forgotten took their toll.

In…

And out…

Héctor wouldn't stay. She knew that. Even if she wouldn't lose him to the Final Death, Imelda knew that she wouldn't be able to keep him. They couldn't restart their relationship where they left out, pretending nothing had changed. No matter how much she wanted such a thing. There were too many changes in both of them and too much past hurt. If she couldn't even forgive him for leaving decades ago when Ernesto was the one to prevent his return, how could she expect Héctor to forgive her for the harm her actions had caused?

They couldn't go back. And trying would only hurt them both. She hurt him enough. Héctor would realize it soon enough. And when he did, Héctor would leave.

Perhaps not completely. He would want to see Coco someday, assuming that she managed to pass on the stories to Miguel. And perhaps he would want to know the rest of the family. Imelda couldn't keep him from the others. Not anymore and never again. He deserved to know them, if that was what everyone wanted. But after everything that happened and everything that she'd put him through, he wouldn't want her. He would leave _her_.

And that was fine. Imelda took a deep breath, ignoring her slight shaking. He wasn't actually abandoning her. Not like her parents did, casting her out and turning their backs on her because she refused to give up someone she loved. And not like how she thought Héctor did almost a century ago. He wouldn't be abandoning her whenever he left. She had no hold on him by now. She couldn't resent Héctor when the inevitable happened.

In…

And out…

It was fine. She would be fine. She didn't actually need him. She was strong enough to endure whatever happened next. Imelda would simply have to prepare herself for what was coming.

She would love him, help him, and do whatever she could to make up for all the wrongs she did to him. But she wouldn't be able to keep him. She wouldn't let Héctor think that they could go back to the way things were. She couldn't raise his hopes and let reality shatter them so cruelly.

Sliding off the bed, Imelda carefully resettled him back on the pillow and tucked the quilt around him again. She was more reluctant to let go, her hand lingering on his sternum a moment longer. She'd grown to used to holding onto him again, in one form or another. The past few days ensured that. She would have to break the habit again before it became too difficult.

In…

And out…

She felt his ribcage rise and fall a few more times. The slight movement of his breathing reassured her that he was safe and healing, something that she apparently still needed. But she finally pulled away, putting some distance between the two of them as she sat in the chair.

It was fine. This would be best for everyone, Héctor included. It would hurt less if she prepared herself. If she could handle the challenges of life without him, then she could let him go.

A moment passed, the only sound his slow and tired breathing. Then her hand slipped back into his.

Perhaps just a little longer. She didn't have to let go yet. She could at least wait until he regained consciousness. Then she could try and prepare herself for when he left.

* * *

"Well, he's certainly full of surprises," said Dr. García, setting his bag on the bedside table. "Remember how I told you that he might recover his strength, but that I could make no guarantees? That it was just as likely that he would never improve? It would seem that our patient has decided to beat the odds."

"He could always be rather stubborn," Imelda said, ignoring the fact that her family was eavesdropping from the hallway again. "Apparently our living family is the same way. One or two of them refuse to let him be forgotten after all."

He nodded, reaching for one of Héctor's left arm. Dr. García studied the bones carefully, flexing the joints and testing the range of motion with gentle caution. He pulled slightly until the hand _popped_ free, demonstrating a little more resistance than last time while still being far too loose for Imelda's comfort. The _médico_ nodded with satisfaction before reattaching Héctor's hand.

"Someone is certainly remembering him," said Dr. García. "There is hardly any glowing left. It will likely be gone by morning. The connections between his bones are stronger. I can't tell if the discoloration has improved, but I'll keep an eye on it in the future. And of course, he is breathing again."

"Yes, he's breathing," Imelda said. If nothing else, that was a comfort. "And in pain. We managed to give Héctor the medicine that you left, but he seemed to be hurting even if he wasn't awake."

Still looking over his unconscious patient, Dr. García said, "Not surprising. Especially considering his condition a few days ago. He nearly succumbed to the Final Death, coming within seconds of disappearing and only stopping at the very end by a nearly lost memory. Normally, once someone reaches that point, they are too weak and exhausted to feel much pain. They usually feel numb instead, which is a far kinder outcome." He reached over, double-checking that the fractures he'd set before were still stable. "Without that exhausted numbness, they would feel their bones trying to turn to dust. That's part of the reason that he feels so brittle right now. And unfortunately, since he's recovered enough of his energy to start breathing and for his bones to hold together a little more firmly, he is also regaining the strength to feel what's happened to his body."

He reached over to the bedside table and picked up the bottle. He seemed to weigh it in his hand, studying how much was left. Dr. García then gave a short nod of satisfaction before setting it back down.

"He was in pain because his bones nearly crumbled apart and he's finally in a condition to feel it," he continued. "But he's recovering. Hopefully that means that his bones will grow at least solid enough for the pain to ease. Until then, rest will help. And if he needs it, you have what's left in the bottle to try and keep him comfortable."

Dr. García turned and met Imelda's gaze firmly. She appreciated his directness. Especially since every word he spoke seemed hopeful about Héctor's chances. He wouldn't lie to protect her feelings. This was his honest opinion.

He believed exactly as she did. Even as he pointed out the less-than-pleasant aspects, Dr. García considered this to be a good sign.

"Remember, Señora Rivera. This has never happened before," he reminded her. "We are in uncharted territory in terms of his recover. But he _is_ improving. Give him time. Let those memories strengthen his body for a while longer. Once he's in better condition and has the energy to spare, I suspect he'll regain consciousness."

What he meant was that Héctor would be all right. That he was truly getting better and would wake up eventually. It would involve waiting, but the uncertainty was gone. They weren't going to wake up to find him gone. It wasn't a vigil for someone that could disappear at any moment.

She'd believed as much, but it was still comforting for an expert to confirm it.

They could give him whatever he needed to recover. They could give him time. They could give him time to heal. Because he would heal. He was already improving. Héctor could take all the time that he needed because he actually _had_ time.

And perhaps it would be enough to prevent her sleep from being disturbed by anxious worries and dreams of what could have happened.

"I'll come and check on his progress again every few days," continued Dr. García. "But if anything else changes or he wakes up, let me know. Even though he is showing improvement, I want to keep an eye on his condition."

"We've been watching over him since _Día de Muertos._ That's not going to change," Imelda said.

Though she could relax a little now. Some of the tension had already faded from her bones, the worry and stress melting away as he pulled away from the Final Death and then the pain eased from his features.

Now they would be keeping Héctor company so that he wouldn't wake up alone in a strange place. Not so he wouldn't die alone a second time.

"Of course, Señora Rivera. I have no doubts that you can take care of him properly. Just make sure that you take care of yourself as well. You need to rest as much as our patient."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose Imelda and Héctor's wedding date so that they would have at least a little time as newlyweds, singing and dancing together adorably, before pregnancy struck. As for Coco's birthday, which is the same as her actress, Ana Ofelia Murguía, it has a story reason for it. 
> 
> Since the creators told us that Héctor was born November 30, 1900, that he was twenty-one when he died, and the sign on their business announces that the Rivera family have been making shoes since 1921, that would indicate that he died in December 1921. I had Ernesto confirm a couple chapters ago that Héctor died in early December. Now here's where gets interesting. That means that he spent his birthday touring with Ernesto rather than with his family. But since in this story, I placed Coco's birthday in December and his and Imelda's anniversary shortly afterwards, that would imply that being away from his family on those days would be a sacrifice too much. Maybe Ernesto managed to argue and convince him to continue during the first few times he tried to go home, if only barely, but Héctor would make it back in time for his daughter's birthday.
> 
> Or he would die trying.
> 
> "Calmato" means the music should sound calmed or relaxed. Which is exactly what this story needs after all the stress so far. The song should be very soothing if it is marked that way.


	12. Accelerando

Most people would not consider the life of a librarian to be very exciting, but Esther López found it satisfying. The quiet shelves filled with books and old papers, knowledge just waiting to be found, called to her more than any other life possibly could. Most days were relatively routine and she was fine with that. But sometimes she would be handed a particular challenge and would have the excuse to dive into the collections in search of answers.

The young boy, the one who came in with a _foto_ and questions about Ernesto de la Cruz's past, presented one such challenge.

Esther wasn't a fool. She grew up in Santa Cecilia under the gaze of that proud statue. In a small town that embraced the past so strongly and depended on the revenue brought in by eager tourists, Esther couldn't escape the man. His songs, his face, and his guitar remained intimately familiar to everyone. She knew the guitar that used to hang in Ernesto de la Cruz's crypt until it vanished on _Día de Muertos_. The same guitar that appeared in the boy's _foto_ , held by his musician great-great-grandfather, Héctor.

Furthermore, he signed out the books under the name of Miguel Rivera. The family name belonged to the creators of shoes of the highest quality and the last people that she expected to be involved with music. That only made the mystery more intriguing.

She'd provided him with a few of the more detailed biographies before he left with his copies of his _foto_. But Esther told him to return in a few days to give her time to find some more information. She managed to pull a few of the more obscure volumes from the shelves and even found one of his requested "conspiracy theory" books about the man tucked away. Far more interesting was what she located in the archives.

While some might mistakenly believe that the _Orfanato de la Cruz_ was named for the famous musician before it closed down twenty years ago and was converted into a museum, Esther knew that it was the other way around. It was part of his narrative of coming from nothing only to become a success. An orphan with no family who became someone beloved by the world. And some of the old records from the _Orfanato de la Cruz_ were available for study.

She knew that Ernesto de la Cruz was born in 1896, but his autobiography stated that his mamá didn't leave him there until he was six. So Esther pulled out the yellowed paper recording the names of the orphans residing there at the end of 1902 to make a copy for the boy. And that was when she noticed something.

In the faded cursive handwriting, it listed Ernesto, age six, abandoned at the church by a woman who left with an unknown man. It didn't name his mamá or even confirm that the man was related to him. It was only a general list rather than a detailed record of the boy. But a few names down, Esther found another familiar name. In the same careful writing, the records listed Héctor, age two, orphaned when a lone pregnant woman arrived in Santa Cecilia and died shortly after in childbirth.

Héctor. The name of the boy's great-great-grandfather. The one in the _foto_ with Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar. Perhaps it could be someone else, but the name, the timing, and the _foto_ was too much evidence to ignore. It had to be the same person. They both spent their childhoods in the _Orfanato de la Cruz_ together. They knew each other.

Curiosity and suspicions sparked by the boy's questions and requested books only grew with this new discovery. And Esther wasn't going to let it go. Not when Miguel Rivera piqued her interest so strongly.

Besides, Prima Helena would have been urging her on if she was still alive. She loved uncovering the truth and figuring out a good mystery almost as much as Esther. If she didn't love working with and helping children as much as she did, her cousin probably would have made a great detective. Maybe that was why she and Esther got along so well growing up.

After copying the records for _Orfanato de la Cruz_ , she decided to pursue a hunch. With the ages provided and the established year that Ernesto claimed to leave Santa Cecilia, she could figure out a range of years to check. She searched through the yellowed and brittle papers until Esther found what she'd guessed would be there. On a marriage certificate for Héctor and Imelda Rivera on January 22, 1917, one of the listed witnesses of the marriage was Señor Ernesto de la Cruz.

They didn't just know each other. They were close. The mystery was growing more and more interesting.

"What are you _really_ up to, Miguel?" she muttered under her breath. "What do you know?"

The boxes of old archives did not give her any direct answers to her questions. But she didn't mind helping the boy find what he was searching for in the books and the records. Maybe he would even share more information with her when he returned for the rest of the promised research.

And with that, Esther López made a copy of the marriage certificate and continued her search through the shelves for anything of interest. About _either_ of the men.

* * *

Sunlight streamed through the window, warm and golden streams that painted the room. Her wheelchair was positioned perfectly for the warmth to soak into her bones a little, though not even her pink shawl could completely banish the chill of age. Somewhere outside, she could hear Manny and Benny playing. After so many years of watching over the youngest Rivera children, the sound of their energetic laughter was music to Coco's ears.

But she could also hear real music now, something she'd been denied for a long time. Careful and precise notes filled the air as Miguel worked his way up and down the scale and practiced various snippets of songs, some that she could barely remember and yet felt familiar. Coco smiled at the memory it teased out of her faded mind, her papá practicing on his guitar to work out a difficult section on a new song. She would have to tell Miguel about it later. He might look quite a lot like her Julio when he was younger, but she could see more and more of Papá in his mannerisms and talent. Especially now that Miguel could share his musical talent with his family.

As her great-grandson played on the beautiful instrument, Miguel was also talking. While he would tell her anything and everything, today's discussion was a bit more focused.

"I thought it would be a good idea to look up all the dates. I already wrote down the ones from the letters you kept, yours and Mamá Imelda's letters," he described. "Now I'm going through the books from the _biblioteca_ and finding the dates for the different songs. I mean, I know when Ernesto claimed to write them, but I'm making sure I can prove it to other people too. And I'm writing down which book and what page I find the dates on. That'll make it easier to show that Papá Héctor wrote the lyrics before Ernesto de la Cruz did."

"Very smart," said Coco.

"It's boring. Like homework, only worse. But I've been working on it. I've been reading a really thick book by… I think it was Señor Diego Flores. And it is really hard to concentrate on, but he's got all this information like hotel registries and old diary entries from people who watched his shows and handmade flyers people kept that were made for his early performances. Señor Flores found all this evidence that helped him trace his path across Mexico before Ernesto became famous."

"Does it talk about Papá?"

His head and expression dropped, his fingers continuing to work their way along the strings. Coco supposed that would be too much to ask. Why would the writer mention her papá when no one knew how important he was? How absolutely wonderful and desperately missed he was? But then Miguel started speaking again, halting her thoughts.

"Not exactly," Miguel said. "There were pictures of some of the hotel registeries and even if he focused on the date, location, and Ernesto de la Cruz's signature, you can still read some of the other names. And a few times, I could see 'H. Rivera' on the papers. I wrote down the pages in the book when his signature shows up so it'll be easier to find when I go back to look. I'm writing a _lot_ down. And there's so much to read."

"I'm sorry, _míjo_. I wish I could help, but eyes aren't what they used to be," said Coco.

He smiled at her and said, "Don't worry about it, Mamá Coco. I can look for evidence while you tell us about Papá Héctor. That's just as important."

"And what are we going to do when you finally have enough evidence?" asked Coco.

His smile evaporated. The boy dropped his eyes as he quietly strummed the guitar. Miguel slowly shook his head.

"I'm still not sure. We'll need plenty of evidence though. No one will want to believe that Ernesto de la Cruz is a fraud."

"And a murderer."

"That will be even harder to prove."

Especially since they didn't know when or where the murder happened. They didn't even know where her papá was buried. Did he at least get a proper burial? Did someone even notice that his death was suspicious before placing Papá in the ground? Or did Ernesto deny him even that dignity, hiding her papá's body in a shallow and unmarked grave? Without knowing when or where the crime happened, how could they prove what the man did? Especially when it happened so long ago?

At least proving he stole Papá's songs would be a little easier than that.

"Tomorrow I'm going back to the _biblioteca_ to get the rest of the stuff," Miguel said. "She promised to make me some copies of old records and to find a few more books. I don't know how I'm going to read all of this, practice some songs, spend time in the workshop because Papá _still_ wants to teach me about shoes, do my homework, and have any time to sleep." He paused a moment, a thoughtful expression passing across his face. "Do you think it would be all right to miss a few assignments?"

" _Míjo_ , you _will_ finish all of your homework," scolded Coco gently, decades of caring for children coming through.

Ducking his head while not completely hiding his grin, Miguel said, "All right. I'll manage. I'll do my homework." Peering back up at her, he added, "You know, you just reminded me of Tía Victoria when she tried to convince me that vitamins are real."

While part of her smiled at the comparison, it was a bittersweet one. Her little Victoria was such a serious and practical girl. She was sweet, but she expressed her affection in more subtle ways than her sister. And she would certainly be the type to lecture the boy on the importance of vitamins. Elena used to complain about her sister talking about things she read in her newest book, even when Elena was busy with other things. Victoria was Coco's smart, serious, and wonderful daughter.

She lost her Victoria too soon, collapsing one day with no more warning than an intense headache. A ruptured aneurysm in her brain, the doctor explained afterwards. There was no way that any of them could have seen it coming, so how could they have prevented it? But it felt like a failure to outlive her daughter. Just as she outlived so many of her loved ones.

But Victoria was with Julio, Mamá, Rosita, and her tíos. And Papá. They were together. They were together, happy, and waiting to see her again. And that wasn't so bad.

It didn't stop Coco from remember Victoria and Elena as little girls, wandering around the workshop and helping clean up the scraps on the days that neither she nor Rosita could be spared to watch over them. They were always happy to help out. Her daughters enjoyed and embraced the shoe-making operation far more than Coco ever did. It came naturally to them and they never seemed to want anything different.

Or perhaps her girls had different dreams than making shoes, but suppressed and hid them because her daughters assumed no one would support a different life. That they would need to set other dreams aside because their family needed them. Would they have loved music if given the chance? Coco might never know. She could only hope that her daughters had happy lives, even if Victoria's was far too short. It was the best that Coco could hope for.

But she couldn't help wondering what it would have been like for her girls to grow up without the music ban. What it would have been like for Victoria and Elena to know their abuelito. What it would have been like if their family was never torn apart by murder and lies.

Smooth chords and soft words, a voice singing a gentle refrain, briefly reminded her a tall man with love in his eyes before pulling her thoughts back to the present. Coco blinked a few times before focusing on her grandson again. She had a feeling that he'd probably been trying to get her attention for a while before switching to that song. Miguel smiled at her as he finished the familiar lullaby.

"Sorry about that, _míjo_ ," she said in a soft voice. "My mind still tries to wander a bit."

"That's all right." He switched to another song, plucking out a few notes. "I like playing it for you."

"And I like hearing that song," she said quietly. "More than you can imagine."

A short knock at the doorway caught their attention. And the nervous voice that accompanies it ensured that they gave their visitors their full attention.

"Miguel? Can we talk?"

Coco watched as Rosa and Abel stepped into the room. While her great-granddaughter looked a little more determined than her brother, neither of them could completely hide their anxiety. Abel's shoulders were hunched enough to disguise his height and his sister was holding her wrist nervously. Their discomfort left Miguel staring at his cousins, confusion sweeping over his face.

" _Sí_?" said Miguel, glancing between the pair.

Releasing her grip on her wrist and straightening to her full height, Rosa said, "You told me that if I told your parents that you were going to the _biblioteca_ about a week ago, you would owe me anything I want. Right?"

Coco could tell from Miguel's expression that he was starting to regret making that deal. But he gave a stiff nod.

The siblings exchanged glances, a flurry of silent conversation flying between them, until Rosa took a step forward and said, "Well, we're calling in that favor. We…" Rosa shifted uneasily. "We…"

"We need your help," said Abel. "You and Mamá Coco managed to talk Abuelita, Tío Enrique, and Tía Luisa into letting you play that guitar."

"Which _still_ looks a lot like the one everyone is talking about being missing from the crypt," Rosa said, crossing her arms. "The one that you can see on the statue."

"Papá's guitar," said Coco firmly.

"Right,' Rosa said, straightening her glasses. "Well, we were hoping that you might help us… talk our parents and Abuelita into letting us too?"

That brought a smile to Coco's face and caused Miguel's eyebrows to shoot up. Music had barely returned to the family and her great-grandchildren were eager to embrace it. Her papá would be so proud.

"You two want to learn how to play the guitar?" asked Miguel.

"No," Abel said. "I don't think my fingers are nimble enough to do what you do."

Miguel grinned and played a very fast and very difficult string of music, his fingers almost a blur. Rosa rolled her eyes as he tried to show off.

"We don't want to play a guitar like you, but may be _something_? A different instrument?" said Rosa.

"Not that we know about other instruments that much," Abel said. "We didn't sneak out to the plaza like you did all the time."

Grinning brightly, Miguel said, "You don't know what you've been missing. There are so many different choices. Like the trumpet or the _guitarrón_ or the violin."

"Maybe you could take them down to the plaza and let them hear what they sound like, _míjo_ ," suggested Coco. "That might help them decide." Giving all her great-grandchildren a warm smile, she said, "And don't worry about Elena and the rest of the family. It'll be all right."

She doubted that Elena or Berto would raise too many objections. Especially now that the music ban was lifted. And certainly after _Día de Muertos_ , when they tried to find their missing boy after he ran away because of their actions. Even if she wasn't really aware of her surroundings much during that night and she didn't hear the undoubtedly-tense conversation the following morning, Coco knew her daughter and grandchildren. Enrique had obviously made it clear that no matter how much he loved and respected his mamá, he wouldn't let her hurt his son like that again. It left an impression on Elena and Coco knew that her daughter would be more cautious in her approach towards the children for quite some time. She would not hinder their interest in music.

And it would be nice to hear all of them playing, songs and laughter filling the house like when she was a little girl.

* * *

_His body was disappearing before his eyes, his flesh fading to reveal bones. He was running out of time. He couldn't feel his own heart beating in his chest anymore, the unnatural silence and stillness inescapable. Everything about it was wrong._

_He was running out of time. They all were. That thought kept screaming in his head. It was almost morning. The sun was about to rise and when it did, he would never go home. He was dying. There was no other way to say it. He was running out of time and he was dying. Miguel couldn't bury his panic._

_He didn't want to die. They were both going to die. He had to get home._

_A strong hand grabbed his shirt and yanked him off his feet. Miguel struggled against the grip as it forced him to stare into the eyes of a murderer. The familiar face that he'd seen on magazines, record covers, and television screens barely seemed recognizable. Not merely because his flesh was long gone, exposing a skull with silver markings. His friendly and charismatic face was twisted by rage and desperation. And all of Miguel's past love and admiration had transformed to hate and terror._

_Ernesto de la Cruz no longer looked like the good guy. He looked like a monster. He was the only skeleton that Miguel feared in the Land of the Dead._

_Have to escape. Have to escape. They were running out of time._

_One hand trying to pry free of Ernesto's grip while the other clutched the_ foto _tightly, Miguel tore his gaze away from the man's wild eyes. Over Ernesto's broad shoulders, the boy saw another skeleton collapsed on the ground. Golden-orange light flashed across his shaking body._

_Papá Héctor._

_They were both running out of time._

_Any fear that wasn't concentrated on his own precarious situation focused on his fading relative. Miguel tightened his grip on the_ foto _and doubled his effort to break free. They were both in danger. They were both dying. He needed to go home, but he couldn't let Héctor be forgotten. He had to save him. Miguel couldn't lose him. He promised that Héctor would get to see his daughter._

_Please, someone help. Please! They were running out of time._

_His fingers, faded to pale bones, dug and pulled at the strong hand holding him up. His legs kicked wildly, trying to hit something with enough force to break free. Desperation and fear fueled his struggles._

_Miguel didn't want to die. He didn't want to lose Héctor._

_Please!_

" _He's a living child, Ernesto," begged Héctor, light flaring over him as his body spasmed weakly._

" _He's a threat," he snarled._

_Terror clawed at the boy. Terror for himself and terror for Héctor. And far too much terror of the lying murderer who held them both at his mercy._

" _Let me go. Stop it," said Miguel desperately. "Héctor! Hold on. Just hold on. I'll save you." He glared briefly at Ernesto and said, "You won't get away with this. I won't let you. I won't let you hurt anyone else, you coward."_

_His grip tightening, Ernesto said, "I am the one who is willing to do what it takes to seize my moment."_

_Miguel peered over the man's shoulders again, trying to meet his great-great-grandfather's eyes. Héctor was weakening rapidly and the glowing was growing worse._

_They were running out of time. The only question was which would claim a victim first: the light of the Final Death or the reveal of bones. They were both running out of time._

_His voice and expression darkening, Ernesto added, "Whatever it takes."_

_Ernesto lifted him higher, giving Miguel a perfect view as the golden glow overtook Héctor's body. His great-great-grandfather barely managed to give him a weak and apologetic smile, his eyes unable to completely hide his fear for the boy. And then he collapsed into dust, blowing apart in the morning breeze._

" _No!" Miguel shouted, reaching out with the hand clutching the_ foto.

_And then with a jolt of movement, Ernesto hurled him over the edge and sent Miguel plummeting off the building._

_Miguel screamed as he tumbled wildly and the wind whipped past. Helpless and terrified, the world was pure chaos. He couldn't even recognize any directions, his head spinning as gravity kept pulling him faster. His arms and legs lashed out in uncoordinated movements, useless and desperate._

_Then the wind ripped the_ foto _out of his hand. He grabbed at it, but he couldn't do anything. It vanished._

_He caught sight of the ground, unforgiving stone rapidly approaching._

_Closer…_

_And closer…_

_And_ —

Miguel sat up sharply, gasping for breath and shaking slightly. His heart pounded in his chest while the beat filled his ears, unlike the nightmare where it had been completely absent.

A nightmare. One crafted from memories, but just a nightmare.

The fourth one in the week and a half since _Día de Muertos_.

He was safe. He was home. He was in his bed, in his room, and no where near any heights or any dead lying murderers. He was safe.

Still struggling to slow down his breathing, Miguel fumbled blindly under his pillow. Even if the sliver of moonlight through his window wasn't enough to really see anything, his fingers found the piece of paper and pulled it out.

It was a copy of the repaired _foto_ , the one with Héctor's face.

"He's safe. I'm safe and Papá Héctor is safe," he whispered shakily, forcing himself to believe the words. "I made it in time. He didn't disappear. I _know_ it. Ernesto won't hurt anyone again. And no one will forget."

Miguel rubbed the edge of the copied _foto_ with his thumb, trying to push the worst of the nightmare's effects to the back of his mind. It wasn't made from the thicker and stiffer paper used for photographs. The librarian copied it on normal paper. But it was still a _foto_. It was still a guarantee that Héctor would be on the _ofrenda_ next year. It would help make sure that their family wouldn't forget him anymore.

"This is Papá Héctor," he whispered, not caring that he couldn't actually see the image. "When Mamá Coco was a little girl, he was a musician and would play his guitar for her. He wrote one song for her, a lullaby, and another song for Mamá Imelda. He could always tell Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe apart and he would cover his daughter's face in kisses. And Papá Héctor borrowed Ernesto's charro suit for this _foto_ because he wanted to look nice for it. But most importantly, he loved his family so much. More than anything else in the world."

Miguel quietly and firmly repeated the stories that Mamá Coco told them. Memories passed down by someone who knew him in life. He whispered them, reassuring himself that he remembered. As long as he remembered the stories she told, then Héctor was remembered.

And if Héctor was remembered, then he was safe. He didn't disappear. Héctor was all right. Miguel wasn't too late.

Miguel wasn't turning into a skeleton. He wasn't falling anymore, plunging towards his death. And Héctor wasn't being forgotten. Everything would be fine.

Fighting back a yawn, he slipped the _foto_ back under his pillow and settled back in bed. At least he would get the chance to sleep a little more. One of the unexpected side effects of the music ban lifting was that they could go to the later church service. There were two on Sundays; the simple one that happened very early in the morning when _no one_ wanted to be awake and the second at a more reasonable hour when there were a few more extravagant features. Like a choir and music. The Rivera family always went to the earlier service because there was no music. But that was not an issue anymore and even Abuelita appreciated the idea of not dragging herself out of bed at such a crazy hour. And that meant extra sleep for everyone.

He tugged the blanket closer and closed his eyes. Miguel slowly relaxed until sleep started pulling at him. He let himself drift back off, his dreams thankfully free of glowing golden tremors, cruelty hidden behind charming smiles, and terrifying heights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're caught up with what is going on in the Land of the Living. Progress is slowly being made when it comes to research and Rosa and Abel are starting to explore their new freedom regarding music. Not to mention we get to see some of the effects that Miguel's eventful night had on him. It would be too much to expect that he wouldn't have at least a few nightmares of his own.
> 
> "Accelerando" means "accelerating" and indicates for the person playing the music to gradually increasing the tempo. Not instantly speeding up, but gradually over time. I thought it would be appropriate for a chapter that involves a time skip.


	13. Rubato

Everything seemed jumbled, but he could feel his mind gradually settling down. His memories calmed and stilled. And as it straightened out, he could feel himself drifting towards consciousness.

The last thing he properly remembered, before everything became a confusing and chaotic mess, was a growing numbness, exhaustion, and the sensation of gentle hands holding onto his as everything faded away.

The first thing that Héctor felt as he slowly woke up was a gentle hand holding onto his.

Other sensations gradually crept in. A dull ache filled every bone in his body. Not that pain wasn't familiar to him by now, but this was a new form of it. Every joint felt completely stiff and immobile. He felt impossibly heavy and tired. And there was something tightly bound around his arm, his leg, and maybe one of his ribs.

But Héctor slowly felt other things, more pleasant things. Soft things that wrapped around him and supported him. It took him a few minutes to recognize the fact that he was in an actual bed under a blanket. It had been a very long time since he'd been on something so comfortable.

Questions started flickering through his tired mind. Where was he? It wasn't his ramshackle little house in Shantytown. Héctor could tell that much. Where was he that would have a soft and cozy bed? Why did everything hurt? What happened? Did he fall off a building or something bad enough to rattle his bones without breaking them? Héctor couldn't feel the sharper pain of a fresh fracture. Just a constant dull ache that made moving seem like a bad idea.

One of the questions that rattled around his skull had an answer, even if it didn't make sense. Héctor knew the hand holding onto his. It certainly wasn't Chicharrón or Tía Chelo or Tía Gabriela or Primo Juan or any of the others. This was someone else. Someone that made even less sense.

Héctor slowly managed to open his eyes. He didn't recognize the ceiling of the dimly-lit room. He also didn't immediately recognize the dresser or the wardrobe across the room, though his hat seemed to be hanging over there. A few photographs did catch his eyes, the occasional familiar face staring back at him from among the people in those captured moments. But it wasn't what he was looking for.

Turning his eyes slowly, Héctor noticed an open door that seemed to connect to a dark hallway, another door made of glass that lead out into the night, a vanity, and a bedside table with an oil lamp providing the dim light. But mostly he focused on the beautiful skeleton holding his hand, sleeping lightly in a chair next to the bed.

Imelda.

If it hadn't been gone for decades by that point, Héctor's heart would have stopped. His breath caught in his ribcage, tangled up by surprise and timid hope. This couldn't be real. It must be a dream. And yet…

" _That's for murdering the love of my life."_

Imelda was holding onto him. She was with him. He didn't know why or how, but she was. Even as his mind fought against exhaustion and tried to sort out everything, he remembered enough to hope that Imelda wouldn't _immediately_ chase him out the door.

Not that Héctor would be able to go anywhere very quickly if she _did_ try to chase him off. Everything still ached too much and even keeping his eyes opened was draining what little strength that he seemed to possess. Whatever happened, whatever strange and barely remembered circumstances brought him to this place, left him unimaginably weak. Hopefully she would take some pity on him. Her gentle hold suggested that she might.

Hope, even an impossible hope, was important. Hope kept him moving and struggling and striving over the years. Hope kept him from giving up in the face of countless failures. For so long, frail and impossible hope was all that Héctor had.

And the way that Imelda held onto him and his muddle memories of her acting warmer towards him gave Héctor a small spark of renewed hope for something that he'd believed to be long since gone.

An irresistible, overwhelming, and long-denied urge rose up. He shouldn't do it. He shouldn't try it. But even if he shouldn't risk it, Héctor couldn't stop himself.

Imelda was holding his hand. He desperately wanted to hold his wife's hand in return.

His hand didn't immediately respond, the stiff joints barely feeling capable of movement. And when his fingers finally tried to close around hers, the dull ache sharpened into real pain.

Moving: a _very_ bad idea.

But while his hand hurt from the small movement, the pain radiating all the way up to his elbow before fading back to the dull ache, it did have one positive effect. Imelda stirred drowsily, her head raising slightly as her eyes blinked open. Her gaze drifted towards their clasped hands before her expression shifted, realizing what she was seeing. She then immediately focused on his face, stiffening when her eyes met his.

"Imelda?" he said, his voice impossibly weak and tired to the point where he barely recognized it as his own.

He also discovered that moving his jaw to speak also hurt. What exactly _happened_ to him?

"Héctor," whispered Imelda. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath, relief etched on her face as clear as her facial markings. As she opened them again, she continued, "How do you feel, Héctor?"

With how his body ached and unable to resist the most obvious response, he said, "Like death warmed over."

His makeshift family in Shantytown would have laughed. With mortality always so close in their thoughts, they ended up with a bit of a morbid sense of humor at times. But from how she flinched and her face twisted up at his words, Imelda clearly didn't appreciate it quite as much.

"Don't you dare joke about this," said Imelda sternly. "Not about this."

He hurt her. Again. Somehow he hurt her again. Guilt wrapped around his chest like talons, squeezing and crushing his long-absent heart. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he managed to do the last thing he wanted and hurt Imelda again with a few short words.

Would he ever stop hurting those he loved?

" _Lo siento_ ," he mumbled, his gaze dropping down to the quilt. "I feel… tired and sore… Like…"

He trailed off, unable to find the words to explain and downplay it. He didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing again and hurting her somehow. After a moment her hand reached over and cupped his jaw. He closed his eyes for just a moment, savoring the tender contact, before opening them again. When he still didn't look back at her, gentle pressure coaxed Héctor to raise his head. The small movement sent a sharp pain jolting down his vertebrae and caused him to look at her again. At least he managed to hide the wince from her.

"Do you even remember what happened?" asked Imelda softly.

"Not everything," he admitted. "My head's a bit muddled. I don't even know where I am."

The hand against his face pulled away slowly. Héctor immediately missed the contact. But at least she didn't let go of his hand. After so long with no contact from her, he would treasure whatever Imelda would offer him.

"What _do_ you remember?" she asked quietly.

He closed his eyes, trying to sort through his jumbled memories. Even the effort made his exhaustion worse.

"I remember… trying to cross the bridge again. Chicharrón… disappearing." He allowed himself a small moment of grief for the loss, though they'd both known it was approaching. "I remember… seeing Ernesto and…"

Héctor's voice died off as he opened his eyes. A wave of anger, sorrow, and horror rolled over him. It couldn't be true. And yet…

"He murdered me," he said, almost inaudibly. A little louder, though still weak, Héctor said, "I tried to come home and he poisoned me."

She nodded, squeezing his hand a little, and said, " _Sí_. With arsenic. But don't worry about him right now, Héctor. Ernesto is facing the consequences for his crimes." Her expression briefly became something vicious before softening again. "What else do you remember?"

"You," said Héctor. "I… I apologized to you."

But not enough. He would never be able to apologize enough to her or Coco to make up for everything. He would never be able to express how sorry he was. It would never be enough.

"And I remember… you hitting Ernesto with your boot. And calling me 'the love of your life.' Then you were singing." He closed his eyes briefly, smiling at the memory of her beautiful voice on the stage and then the brief moment afterwards where he held her in his arms. "And… we were running out of time? Something was wrong. I… don't know. And… Miguel!" His eyes flew open. "What happened? Is he all right? Did he make it back?"

"Miguel is safe," Imelda said quickly. "It's all right. He's safe. We sent him home in time."

Héctor relaxed at her reassurances. Miguel was safe. He had a wonderful and amazing great-great-grandson, a tiny piece of family. Héctor had liked him from the moment they met, even before they realized the truth. And he made it home. He didn't fail Miguel. For once, he didn't ruin everything for his family.

But there was something else that prickled around the edges of his mind. There was something important. A reason for why he was lying in a strange bed, exhausted and his bones aching. A fuzzy memory of a sharp and cold pain washing over him, of increasing weakness, and of flashes of golden-orange light…

"Oh," said Héctor quietly. The realization left him numb and feeling detached from reality. "The Final Death… How did I…?"

"You came close," she said. Imelda turned her head, staring at the small collection of objects on the bedside table. "You were nearly forgotten, but Coco must have remembered at the last moment. Miguel found a way to remind her. It's the only explanation."

She wasn't looking at him anymore, but her grip on his hand felt tighter. It was a bit of a mixed message. But he couldn't seem to focus too much. He still felt a bit muddled and too tired to think very hard. There was relief. Relief that Coco remembered, relief that his family was safe after everything, and relief that he managed to survive the night. Héctor had come to terms with his approaching Final Death, that he would soon be gone. He'd accepted what was happening and just hoped to see his daughter before the end, but that didn't mean he was eager to disappear. But as much relief as he felt, there was also the feeling of being overwhelmed.

He had time again. He didn't know how long that it might be, but it was more than he expected. And Imelda was with him. She wasn't turning him away.

" _I… I can't forgive you... But I will help you."_

Pity and sympathy wasn't enough to rebuild or fix what he broke decades ago. Pity and sympathy for a dying man might be enough to coax a little kindness and the shadow of affection from her though. Imelda wasn't a cruel woman. She would help him even if she could never forgive him for a lifetime of pain and loneliness.

But she wasn't letting go. Imelda was still holding his hand. Even the smallest sign of affection was more than he expected.

It was enough to give Héctor a little hope. Perhaps he would get to see her even after this. Perhaps her past hatred and pain was beginning to heal. Perhaps someday she would trust him again.

Even if he could have nothing else, he would like to have her trust again. That would be enough.

His eyes drifting briefly to the darkness on the other side of the glass door, Héctor said quietly, "That explains why I'm so tired, but still here. I guess I slept all day."

"It's more than that, Héctor," she said, a strange tone to her voice that sent him searching his memories to try and identify. " _Día de Muertos_ was a little over two weeks ago."

"Two weeks?" said Héctor, unable to wrap his mind around it. "It couldn't be that long."

Still not looking at him, Imelda said, "It has. I don't think you realize how close that you came to the Final Death. We didn't think you would survive. And when you were remembered at the very last second, we still didn't know if you would recover. It took days for you to show any sign of improvement."

As unsettling as her description might be, the faint crack in Imelda's voice was more uncomfortable to him. His hand tightened a little more, the attempt to offer her minor comfort worth the brief spike of pain.

"You nearly died, Héctor. Only a miracle… Only Coco and Miguel kept it from happening. And you knew it was coming." She stared at the bedside table, but tension crept into Imelda's face and posture. "You knew that you were running out of time. You knew that the Final Death was close. But I didn't know."

Héctor knew Imelda. At least, he _once_ knew her. Decades ago, when they were both young and together, he could recognize her thoughts by the smallest hint in her voice or her face. Once upon a time, he knew her moods better than he knew the streets of Santa Cecilia. Even with the calm exterior, he could see the cracks of worry and hurt. And darker emotions that didn't belong on his wife's face.

"Imelda…"

"I didn't know," she continued. "I suppose I should have expected that. After what I told you the last time that I saw you, that I wanted you to stay away and forbidding you to come near my family, it makes sense for you to keep your distance. But not a word… Not even a hint. You were dying and I had no idea. And I wouldn't have known if Miguel didn't come here. You would have died that night and I would have never known. Because you didn't even try to tell me what was happening."

Starting to realize where she was going with this discussion and not liking it even slightly, Héctor said, "Imelda, it's not—"

"On what could have been your final day, you didn't even try to say goodbye," she said.

She wasn't looking at him and he didn't know if she heard him. It seemed like she was talking more to the oil lamp and the bottle on the bedside table now than she was to him.

"Maybe I would have tried to turn you away, but you were always determined and creative when something was important to you. You could have even tried leaving a note. But you didn't try."

No, no, no. This was wrong. Héctor couldn't let her follow that trail of thought. She couldn't think what she seemed to be thinking. This wasn't right. He had to make her understand.

"I don't know if you thought I wouldn't listen."

"Imelda—"

"Or that I wouldn't _care_ that you were so close to the Final Death. I _am_ the one who caused it."

"I don't—"

"Or maybe after everything that I said or did, you no longer cared enough to make the effort. Why waste what little time that you had left? Especially on me? Why risk being hurt again?"

This was wrong. Frustration and guilt flickered past the exhaustion and aching pain. He couldn't let her think this. He had to fix this. He couldn't ignore her distant expression and her fragile voice, the one that he could hear slowly cracking. He had to convince her. He had to make Imelda understand.

"That's not—"

"Whatever the reason, I suppose it's my own doing. After everything I did and how much I hurt you, why would you want me to know? I drove you away. I didn't deserve a final word or closure. You had no reason to care or even think about the woman who couldn't even trust her husband and turned against him so easily." She was definitely not speaking to him anymore, her gaze too detached and her voice too dark. "Why else would you not even try to see me on what could have been your last day?"

"Because I was a coward!" Héctor snapped, his voice as loud as his exhaustion would allow.

His frustration and desperation caused him to react as he normally would, regardless of the stiffness in every joint, sitting up sharply and gesturing as he spoke. But—

Bad idea, _bad idea,_ _ **bad idea!**_

Pain raced across his entire body, the dull ache replaced by intense agony. His bones felt like they were tearing apart into broken splinters. The sensation consumed him, knocking the breath from his chest and ripping away all rational thought. His vision went white from the pain and sharp ringing filled his skull to a deafening volume, blocking out all other sights and sounds.

Make it stop. Please, make it stop.

It _hurt_. Too much pain. _Everything_ hurt. Agony flooded his body, intense and inescapable. He instinctively wanted to curl into a ball to try and escape it, but he couldn't get any of his limbs to respond at the moment. His head swam as he barely clung to consciousness. Time grew a little fuzzy as pain overtook everything.

No more. Make it stop. Please.

Slowly the ringing in his head began to diminish. He could make out the sounds of strained gasps over the noise filling his skull. He didn't immediately recognize that they were coming from him. Unfortunately, the overwhelming agony was even slower to recede.

"—tor? Can you hear me?" Through the dull ringing roar, he could faintly make out Imelda's voice coming from a long distance away. "Héctor!"

His eyes were pressed shut and his teeth were clenched tight. When did he do that? He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. While initially blurry, the pain-induced whiteness gradually faded enough for him to make out a few things again.

Imelda was right in front of him, her face only a few inches from his. Her expression was twisted by intense worry and guilt. One of her arms had wrapped around to support him, a hand resting against his back and keeping him from collapsing backwards. Her other hand was against his cheekbone to keep his head steady.

Keeping still and steady sounded like a wonderful idea. He wanted to keep… not moving.

When she noticed him trying to meet her eyes, Imelda's face relaxed slightly and she said, "Can you hear me, Héctor? Look at me. I've got you." Her thumb moved slightly, brushing against one of his facial markings. "Does it still hurt?"

" _S-sí_ ," he hissed through his teeth.

His response calmed her a little more, her eyes closing briefly as she muttered " _idiota_ " in a relieved voice. He could barely focus on her voice through the remaining noise in his skull and the agony in his bones. But he tried. He needed to tell her something, convince her of something.

What was he about to say before he tried moving?

"All right," said Imelda quietly. "Hold on a moment."

His eyes slipped shut as her hand left his face. He wobbled tiredly, but managed to hold onto consciousness and stay upright. The hand still on his back was probably mostly responsible for that, but it was still an accomplishment at the moment.

Héctor heard her pouring something over on the bedside table with her free hand. The bottle? And she was talking. Calm and reassuring, but she was facing away from him. He couldn't make out the words before she fell silent again. But at least the ringing was almost gone from his head. After a moment, he felt Imelda shift again.

"Héctor."

He slowly opened his eyes again. Imelda held a small glass of some reddish-brown liquid in front of him. She gave him a small encouraging nod.

"Drink this. It'll help with the pain," she said gently. "It's going to take time for you to recover. It's all right. Just take your time and drink this."

She brought it to his mouth and he obediently swallowed the bitter medicine, a sensation of coolness sliding down. It slowly started spreading and easing some of the sharp pain. Imelda set the glass back down again as the worst of the agony ebbed to something a little less all-consuming.

"Moving," he mumbled. "Bad idea."

"Clearly," said Imelda. "Let's get you settled back down again before you do something else dumb."

She leaned closer so that she could reach behind Héctor while still supporting him. He couldn't see what she was doing, but he did notice that it resulted in her holding him against her simple and comfortable dress to keep him steady. The embrace could almost be called a hug, one lasting longer than the spontaneous moment after her performance. He leaned against her, wishing that he had enough strength to wrap his arms around Imelda. Well, the strength and a lack of pain.

Distantly, Héctor wondered where his shirt vanished. Her dress, clearly chosen for comfort while she watched over him, didn't seem like much fabric between them.

As she finished her preparations, Imelda started laying him back down. The new sharp agony from moving again fought against the cooling sensation of the medicine trying to ease his pain. His eyes and teeth were clenched tight until Héctor felt his skull against the pillow again. She'd apparently rearranged it to prop him up slightly, somehow finding the perfect angle to be comfortable enough to sleep while still letting him look at her more easily.

Héctor remained perfectly still on the soft surface for a few moments, trying to let his shaky breathing to settle down and for the medicine to regain some ground. Surviving the Final Death didn't seem to be much easier than the lead up to it. He knew he wouldn't be able to cling to consciousness much longer. He was already pushing his meager energy to its limits.

But he had to tell Imelda. She needed to understand.

"I was a coward," he repeated tiredly. "I'm sorry."

"Easy now. It's all right. Get some rest," said Imelda, pulling the quilt around him carefully. Her voice stirred memories of her comforting Coco when a high fever left the girl tired and miserable while leaving her parents desperately worried and trying to hide it from her. "It's… been a long two weeks. I shouldn't have said anything when you've barely woken up. I didn't mean to upset you and I'm sorry. Forget about that nonsense. I was mostly talking to myself anyway."

"I was a coward. That's why I didn't want to tell you what was happening," he said, his voice as steady as he could manage with the circumstances. "I was scared to try and tell you. I knew that if I could get a glimpse of Coco across the bridge, I would only get to see her. I wouldn't get to apologize or hug her or tell her how much her papá loved her, but… I could pretend. I could pretend that I didn't fail her or break her heart or break my promise. And since she wouldn't see or hear me, I… I wouldn't hear Coco tell me how much she hates me for leaving."

"She doesn't hate you, Héctor," said Imelda firmly. "Coco _never_ hated you."

While her reassurances warmed him slightly, Héctor continued, "But most importantly, seeing her one last time wouldn't hurt her. She wouldn't know that I finally came home to her, but she also wouldn't be hurt again." His eyes dropped towards the quilt. "I didn't want to hurt her. Or you. That's why I didn't try to tell you how close to the Final Death I was."

Maybe it was the medicine, the easing of the pain in his body, or the simple exhaustion, but Héctor felt himself starting to drift back towards sleep. His eyes tried to slip closed again. But he kept talking. She needed to understand.

"If I told you… I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know," Héctor said, trying to find the words in his increasingly-groggy mind. "And you wouldn't be happy about it. I know better than that, Imelda. If you listened, you'd blame yourself. You _tried_ to. I couldn't… I couldn't hurt you again like that. Telling you that I was fading would hurt you. And I was too much of a coward to face you with that news. I couldn't bear it."

She was silent for a moment. Héctor forced himself to open his eyes again. He managed to catch a glimpse of her face, but was too tired to focus on her expression.

"It's all right," said Imelda quietly. "I can understand why you would want to spend your last night trying to see our daughter. And if you were afraid of hurting me, I suppose I can understand why you didn't want to see me."

He hesitated a moment. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"You closed the workshop about midday, just as you do every year to give your family time to prepare for _Día de Muertos_. You were wearing a black dress, a more practical one than the purple outfit you wore that night. But still breathtaking."

Héctor heard a soft gasp, but he needed to focus on forcing out the tired words and wavering thoughts. It was getting harder. Even the dull ache that the medicine hadn't completely banished yet couldn't keep him aware much longer.

"You told me that you didn't want anything to do with me, but… Sometimes you would pass by the front window and there's an alleyway across the street where… Even if I couldn't bring myself to try and tell you, I wanted to at least see you. Even if it was from a distance. And I could pretend…"

He smiled weakly. He could pretend that it was like when he was barely more than a child, watching her from across the plaza. Before Imelda started talking back to him. Before he earned her softer smile, her trust, and her affection. Before they built a life together. And before he broke everything and hurt her so deeply, doing exactly what her papá always claimed he would.

Watching from a distance was his only choice. That way, he wouldn't cause her any more grief. And he... wouldn't have to face the damage that he did to those he loved again. He was too much of a coward to face another heart-breaking confrontation with Imelda in his final hours.

And yet it happened anyway, with Miguel pleading his case when he couldn't bring himself to speak more than a long-overdue apology.

"I shouldn't have… You wanted me to stay away… But if you didn't see me… I thought it'd be all right… And not telling you that I was… It was easier... It didn't hurt you or…"

Héctor's voice trailed off as his thoughts seemed to dissolve away. He thought he felt a hand ghosting across his face, brushing back his hair. The sensation stirred memories, but it was also light enough that it could be his imagination. The last of his fragile strength seemed to slip through his fingers. He couldn't hold onto consciousness any longer.

Before he completely slipped under again, Héctor thought he heard soft humming. He let it lull him deeper into the approaching sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Héctor finally wakes up! And then falls back to sleep. But he's improving. Healing takes time.
> 
> "Rubato" indicates that the section is flexible in tempo. Rubato tempo would translate literally as "stolen time" (which is something that Héctor and Imelda are certainly familiar with). It allows a song to have expressive and rhythmic freedom by a slight speeding up and then slowing down of the tempo at the discretion of the soloist or the conductor. 
> 
> But more importantly, we actually see the word "rubato" in the film. In the flashback, when Ernesto is flipping through the songbook to "Remember Me," the sheet music states that it is to be played "rubato, simply, tenderly." I had to use it as a chapter title eventually.


	14. Risoluto

Imelda hummed quietly as Héctor's breathing settled back down and he drifted to sleep. She didn't know if he even heard it before he fell back into unconsciousness. But she found herself falling back on music even after nearly a century avoiding it. In the face of his reaction to moving and his confession, she didn't know how else to respond. So Imelda tried to comfort him the same way she did when Coco was a little girl and upset about missing her papá, before either of them realized that he would never be coming back. She needed to keep him calm and resting. Otherwise Héctor might try something equally foolish again.

And if he did, she didn't know if she would be able to convince her brothers to go back to bed a second time.

Between his frustrated outburst at her ill-timed and upset words and everything immediately after, neither she nor Héctor remained quiet enough for the middle of the night. When Héctor sat up suddenly, forcing her grab and support the _idiota_ before pain could make him collapse, his reaction briefly terrified her. The choked gasp and the way that his body immediately tried to fall like a string-cut marionette made something in her lurch. She could tell that he would have lost all color in his face if he still had skin and Héctor didn't respond to her for several moments, leading her voice to grow louder than she intended. The only thing that occupied her mind was the fear that he'd managed to make things worse.

And apparently they'd been loud enough awaken Oscar and Felipe in the neighboring room. The pair had come to investigate the raised voices and found her holding Héctor and trying to pour out some medicine for him. Between the fact that he'd finally regained consciousness and they could hear his strained panting from the pain, they'd both wanted to help her. But Imelda managed to reassure them that she had it under control and promised to talk in the morning. And thankfully, once they reluctantly left, no one else showed up. At least the noise didn't wake up the rest of the household.

She wasn't exaggerating when she claimed that the last two weeks had been long. Even after the worst of their anxiety over Héctor's condition eased as he showed tangible improvement, they continued to keep watch over him. She did manage to sleep a little better though. She knew that he would still be there in the morning. But they did need to keep an eye on him. While it never seemed as intense as the first time, when his entire body grew tense and he clenched his jaw against their efforts to help, there had been a few more instances where Héctor showed faint hints of his pain resurfacing. The bottle on the bedside table was now about a third of the way empty. But those moments had grown less common and this was the first time he actually woke up. And he'd only needed the medicine when he tried to move too quickly.

And even as they continued to care for their patient, their afterlives continued. They'd worked on a few orders, including a rather large and mysterious one that Rosita and Victoria brought in. The pair had even taken some of the completed shoes to deliver, the customers for their order never setting foot near the workshop. Imelda would have normally questioned the two of them, but she had plenty of other issues to distract her. There had been a few recent customers who had either given Imelda strange looks or asked her flat-out if she was at the Sunrise Spectacular. Several of their family members had been on screen when Miguel was thrown over the side and they'd rushed over, but she was the one who made a spectacle of herself by singing in front of the crowds. She was the one they almost recognized. Imelda mostly responded to the questions with sharp glares. It was an annoying distraction from work.

Another annoying distraction would be the gossip that their customers brought in. Not to mention whenever they turned on the radio to a new station, it was the only topic that seemed to come up. No matter how satisfying it might be to know that Ernesto de la Cruz couldn't hide his crimes any longer, Imelda didn't want to keep hearing that man's name.

Especially when the occasional still-loyal fan tried to come up with increasingly-unlikely excuses for what happened. There was only so much they could say to explain why the man would nearly murder a living child, something that no one could deny with that many witnesses, but some people were trying. But most people accepted that he was a horrible person who deserved to be punished. And he was being charged with all the crimes that the police officers mentioned that morning.

Everyone was talking about it. Between the involvement of a living boy and his status as a huge celebrity, it was the trial of the millennium. Everyone wanted to know what was happening. But they were keeping the press out of the courtroom and the lawyers, judge, and everyone directly involved were keeping as quiet as possible. And that only added fuel to the frenzy. The speculation and guesses about what other dark secrets that Ernesto might be hiding flew as quickly as some of the more aerodynamic alebrijes. And when the quiet radio in their workshop started talking about how the unknown "Héctor" mentioned by the living boy had not stepped forward yet and that the mysterious song writer might have been completely forgotten…

Well, they were probably due for a new radio anyway. If it couldn't survive a few hits from a sturdy Rivera boot, then it couldn't have been constructed properly in the first place.

Imelda quietly prayed every day that they would keep her family's name out of it for now. With Ernesto's confession of the murder in front of multiple witnesses and his public attempt to murder Miguel, she hoped that no one would call on her to come to the trial and give another statement. Imelda wasn't certain that she would be able to do it. She didn't think she would be able to restrain herself again from attacking that man for everything he'd done to her family. And if they tried to call on Héctor to give testimony on how he was murdered by his best friend… Even if he was awake and well, she wouldn't want him there. She didn't want him anywhere near Ernesto.

Still humming softly, Imelda absently brushed his hair back like she used to so long ago. He didn't tell her that he was succumbing to the Final Death, but… He did try to get one last glimpse of her from a distance, trying to see her while honoring her wishes not to see him. In some ways, Imelda felt warmed by that knowledge even as it hurt. Part of her still thought it was nice to hear that he kept thinking about her. But another part felt a pang of regret from that knowledge.

" _Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona_ ," she sang quietly, " _no dejaré de quererte_."

It was a beautiful song, but sad. But the part about the man loving her even if it might cost him his life… It seemed to hit her harder now. Because despite what she'd believed for so long, Héctor never stopped loving her and Coco. And it cost him his life.

She'd known Héctor and how much he loved his family. She'd seen how much he valued and craved familial connections and how part of him would always be that lonely orphan who sought out anyone who could make him feel like he belonged. Even with Ernesto whispering in his ear and coaxing him to go on longer and longer trips further away, Imelda knew the man that she married. She'd known he would do anything for his family.

And yet Imelda's thoughts kept coming back to how easily she doubted him. After their years together, she knew Héctor better than anyone. She knew him and yet believed that he would abandon them. She believed the gossiping neighbors, all the disapproving comments from her papá from before, and her own quiet fears instead of the man that she loved. Why couldn't she trust him? She had every reason in the world to trust that he would keep his promises, that he would never break his word to her unless something terrible happened. Why couldn't she trust that Héctor loved them, would do anything for them, and would never abandon them? Why couldn't she see the truth sooner? Why did it take ninety-six years and nearly losing Héctor to the Final Death?

He wasn't like her parents. Héctor would never turn her away or abandon her. And yet she clearly didn't trust him in return. If she truly loved and trusted him, then she would have realized that the only thing that would have kept him from his family was death itself.

" _No dejaré de quererte_ ," she sang, barely above a whisper.

She didn't trust him and yet he loved her even when Ernesto killed him for it.

Imelda brushed back his hair again, watching him sleep peacefully. No sign of strain, stress, or pain in his features. She hurt him so much, but he would be all right now. He was getting better. And that meant that he would leave soon. Maybe he would still come around occasionally. He wanted to see her on his final day despite everything, but Imelda knew better than to think that it meant Héctor would stay. She wouldn't delude herself like that.

If she couldn't believe in and trust him when Héctor needed her to, then why would she think that she deserved his loyalty and devotion now?

She'd held on to him for as long as she could, waiting for him to heal. But now she had no more excuses. She needed to prepare herself. A week and a half ago, she'd made a decision and she was going to stick to it. The longer that she waited to take a step back, the more it would hurt when Héctor left. Imelda knew that a little distance now would prevent heartache for both of them in the future.

After everything that happened and after so long, Imelda knew that she held no claim on him. Hopefully Héctor wouldn't be too stubborn to realize it.

"I was angry for a long time. Angry and hurt. And it gave me the strength to protect our family," she murmured. "It was a difficult time. I don't know if you can understand how hard it was for a young woman with a child and no husband to survive. It… It wasn't the Revolution, but it wasn't completely safe or simple. And I needed that anger, hatred, and spite to keep going. I needed the strength it provided. It helped us survive and kept us safe. But I held onto it for too long and it started hurting everyone. Coco, Miguel, you… and myself. But anger is easier than grief and heartache. It's easier than guilt and regret. It was easier to be angry and hating you than it was listening. It was easier than considering that I might have been wrong. And even now, that anger is too deeply rooted. I don't know if it'll ever be gone completely."

She should be saying this when he was awake. He deserved to know. But it was easier to speak when she knew he couldn't truly hear her. And none of this would ever be easy for her. She was the matriarch of this family and the founder of a business that would provide for them for generations. She was solid, sturdy, and dependable. She was a pillar of strength. She couldn't be vulnerable or weak. And this was in essence a confession of vulnerability.

"I know it wasn't completely your fault what our family went through. What I endured because of your absence. But I can't be that young woman that you married. I can't go back, no matter how much I might wish for those simpler days. I'm not the same person that you heard singing in the plaza as you played." Imelda smiled sadly at the sleeping figure. "I want you. I miss you. I love you. But you won't stay. I've hurt you too much and the woman that you love is only a memory. You'll leave. But it's for the best. And I won't blame you for leaving this time. We can't pretend nothing happened. We've both been hurt enough. In both life and death."

Imelda brushed back his hair one last time. Then she settled back in her chair, trying to get comfortable. It would be all right. Everything would be all right. She survived decades without him.

The ragged and raw wound that Héctor's disappearance tore in her heart didn't hurt as much as it once did, the truth drawing out the worst of the spite and hatred from poisoning her any longer. She suspected that it would never completely heal. Even with her actual heart long gone, there would be an emptiness that would never be filled. But she would be fine. She could handle it. She wouldn't force Héctor to stay just because she missed the way things used to be almost a century ago. That would only end in more sorrow. It would be better this way.

Movement from the corner of her eye caused Imelda to turn around towards her glass door. Pepita was perched on the balcony, glowing brightly in the darkness. She stared at the woman, her tail flicking back and forth. The alebrije fluttered her wings and blinked lazily as she stared. The colors, the lights, and Pepita's mere presence felt comforting.

Even if Héctor wouldn't stay, Pepita would. Imelda would still have her. She would have the rest of her family. She didn't need anything else. She survived this long without him at her side. She would be fine.

She would be fine.

* * *

The dull ache in his bones remained as he drifted back towards consciousness. He heard people moving around somewhere below, footsteps and murmuring voices drifting up to reach him. The distant sounds coaxed Héctor into opening his eyes. The warm and golden morning light streaming into the room made him blink drowsily. It wasn't a particularly bad way to wake up. He missed the feeling of a hand resting in his though.

He wasn't certain how much time had passed, but it was morning now. The room was empty, but he wasn't exactly alone. He could hear people downstairs going about their day. Not that he knew what was downstairs or even where he was. But he had a few ideas.

The photographs on the dresser mostly showed unfamiliar faces, but he knew one for certain. Older and changed, but still beautiful and recognizable. The _foto_ showed a young man and woman together, an obvious wedding picture filled with so much love. Héctor would always know his Coco. He could pick out the details of the child in the grown woman's smiling face.

He was in Imelda's home. Possibly even her room. Héctor could barely believe it. Not so long ago, he wouldn't be allowed anywhere close to her. Finding himself waking up in a space that clearly belonged to Imelda left him feeling overwhelmed. It was nice. It felt nice to be brought somewhere so personal. But Héctor couldn't completely bury the sensation that he was intruding.

He shouldn't be here. This was _hers_. He didn't belong. Not anymore.

Héctor tried to bury that feeling and focus on the nice things for the moment. The warm sunlight and soft quilt that wrapped around his bones felt much better than his aching body and stiff joints. There was a peacefulness to it. But there was something else, a sensation that he couldn't quite describe. Like something was weighing him down and keeping him in place. A heaviness, but not unpleasant.

Honestly, as long as he didn't try to move, it wasn't too bad. He could ignore the aches in his bones and enjoy his unusual surroundings.

This was nice. He was somewhere warm, bright, soft, and comfortable. He hadn't felt like this in such a long time. He wanted to soak it all in. Every detail of the room felt like _Imelda_.

He almost dozed back off again. Héctor couldn't seem to shake off tiredness and his surroundings seemed to be conspiring to lull him back to sleep. But creaking stairs caused him to push away some of his exhaustion and look towards the doorway. A strange skeleton with simple green facial markings and carrying a bag appeared there, Imelda following right behind.

"My patient's awake," said the stranger. "Good morning, Señor. It is good to finally meet you properly. You are a very lucky man."

Uncertain who this person was, Héctor's gaze fell towards Imelda. She stood back a little, but still gave him a small encouraging nod.

"Héctor, this is Dr. García," Imelda said. "He's a neighbor of ours and has been helping take care of you."

"I didn't do that much, Señora. It doesn't matter how talented I might be; the Final Death is beyond our ability to stop." Dr. García set his bag down on the bedside table. "The living remembered. That's the only reason that our patient is recovering. It has nothing to do with me."

Gesturing briefly at Héctor's arm, Imelda said, "You _did_ help set his fractures, kept an eye on his recovery, and provided medicine for the pain. We are very grateful for that."

And that did explain the sensation of something wrapped tightly around a few bones. Héctor hadn't looked yet. There'd been too much going on lately and he'd focused on Imelda when he woke up last time. Now he took a moment to glance at where his arm rested on top of the quilt. Someone took the time to set his ulna, complete with a proper splint and enough gauze to cushion the injury from being jostled.

It felt strange. Professional medical attention wasn't exactly common for the people in Shantytown. Too costly and too much effort for something that did them very little good. The last time he remembered any of them bothering was when Primo Arturo broke his arm about sixty years ago. He was only fourteen when he died and he wasn't as poorly remembered as some of them at that point. No one wanted the boy to suffer and since at least a few people still remembered him even if he wasn't on anyone's _ofrenda_ , it stood a chance at healing. Everyone scrounged together what they could so that his injury could be properly treated. It took a long time for the bone to knit back together and it remained a bit sensitive even after, but the _médico_ did a good job at fixing the boy up. Primo Arturo's arm held together until the Final Death took him thirty years ago.

So seeing his own arm splinted and bound was a bit of a surprise.

"I don't know how much it'll help," Héctor said slowly. "I broke that a while back. But _gracias_."

Picking up the arm carefully and slowly so that Héctor could mostly suppress the hiss of pain the movement caused, Dr. García said, "I can tell that you haven't been healing properly, Señor." He studied the bound fracture and the surrounding bones clinically. "There is clear evidence that it's been broken for at least a few months without any signs of improvement."

"Uh… It might have been a _little_ longer than that," he admitted quietly.

"How much longer?" asked Dr. García.

Trying to remember, Héctor kept glancing towards Imelda. She was watching and listening to the discussion closely. But she was keeping some distance. And she wasn't meeting his eyes. She kept looking at his arm, at his ribcage, and a section of the quilt covering his leg. Even if he couldn't move around enough to look himself, he knew that the broken rib and tibia were likely set at the same time as his arm.

"Not that long," Héctor said slowly. "Maybe seven or eight… years?"

"Eight years?" said Imelda. Now she was looking at her face, her expression a jumble of emotions that he was too tired to properly decipher, no matter how much he wanted to. "Eight years without healing?"

After a moment of guilt churning in his non-existent guts, Héctor said, "…That was a lie. I apolo—" He glanced down. "I'm sorry. I didn't break my arm eight years. It was closer to fifteen."

No one immediately spoke. He glanced up briefly. Imelda didn't even look at him, her eyes turning towards her vanity instead. But her body language made Héctor look back down again.

He didn't want to see her reaction to that confession. He already knew that she blamed herself for the way he was nearly forgotten. It did hurt, knowing that she could believe that he would ever… But Héctor had come to terms with it a long time ago. Her actions, while heartbreaking, were understandable reactions. And if he'd stayed when she asked, then none of this would have ever happened.

He'd hurt her enough. He hurt Imelda enough to make her doubt how much he loved his family. He left her alone, vulnerable to whatever hardships that the world might have thrown at her in his absence. His mistake turned his warm and passionate wife into someone more stern, stiff, angry, and hurt. He didn't want her guilt over things that _he_ caused to hurt Imelda further.

"At least tell me that you haven't been walking on a broken leg for that long too," said Dr. García, slowly setting his arm back down on the quilt.

Even with the man being careful and trying not to move the limb too much, Héctor still struggled against the urge to wince. He knew theoretically that the _médico_ was trying to help. But movement was clearly still a bad idea. And the entire conversation and impromptu exam felt exhausting.

"No, that only happened a few months ago," he said.

Dr. García nodded thoughtfully and said, "I suppose that's one small blessing. I think I can wait until later to explain exactly how much damage walking on a fractured tibia can cause. For now, let's focus on assessing your current condition. How are you feeling, Señor?"

"Tired," Héctor admitted with an exhausted sigh. "But not quite as bad as last night. And a little sore."

"Don't forget that the last time that you tried to move, it nearly made you pass out again," said Imelda, giving him a stern look.

Smiling apologetically, Héctor said, "Right. Should have mentioned that. Moving is a bad idea."

"Not surprising. Your strength is returning as you are remembered, but it has mostly been focused on healing the damage caused by your near encounter with the Final Death," said Dr. García. "You will probably be weak and tired for a while. Do you notice any other symptoms?"

"Stiffness," he said. "Even if it didn't hurt, moving…"

Héctor trailed off, not knowing how to explain the tightness in his joints. Like someone glued his bones together or dunked him in cement. He still wasn't certain how he'd managed to bolt upright before. He could feel the resistance without even trying to move. His eyes drifted back towards Imelda as he struggled to find the words to describe the sensation.

"It almost sounds like you are finally experiencing arthritis," said Imelda, studying her hands as she flexed her fingers experimentally. "One of the benefits of death was leaving that affliction behind. It was an unwanted hinderance to my work."

"Guess I missed out on that," he said quietly.

One of a thousand things that he'd missed out on. True, most people didn't look forward to arthritis, gray hair, wrinkles, weakening eyesight and hearing, and other hardships of aging. But he never had the chance. He was supposed to go through them alongside his wife, sharing those experiences over the years. The streaks of gray in Imelda's beautiful hair and her remarks about suffering from arthritis served to remind Héctor of the full and rich life that she spent without him. He was practically a child compared to the mature and authoritative figure she'd become in his absence. She got to experience so much and he ended up stuck in more ways than one.

Arthritis, gray hair, and growing old with those he loved were all experiences stolen from him.

Reaching for Héctor's arm again, Dr. García said, "You said that you feel stiff? I need to check something. This is probably not going to be comfortable. Ready?"

Being careful not to jostle his patient's bones, the _médico_ pulled at Héctor's elbow. There was more resistance than Héctor was used to feeling, but it came loose with a slight _pop_ and a jolt of pain from the movement. He hissed sharply as Dr. García apologized. It took a moment, but eventually reattached the limb with the same care as before. Héctor didn't open his eyes again until the worst of the pain faded again.

He looked towards Imelda, blinking tiredly. Her hand was outstretched, as if she'd been reaching towards him before stopping herself. After a moment of hesitation, she withdrew her hand and smoothed out her dress as if it was her original intention.

"Señora Rivera," said Dr. García. "Could you find another glass for his medicine?"

He was making an excuse to get her out of the room. Héctor knew it. And Imelda certainly knew it. But she couldn't ignore the request. She gave a slow nod before stepping out, the stair creaking slightly on the way down.

"Is there any other symptoms that you didn't want to mention before?" asked Dr. García. "I wouldn't be surprised if there are side effects. As far as I have been able to establish, no one has ever come as close to the Final Death and survived. We need to take our time and be aware of how your recovery progresses. So is there anything else? You mentioned fatigue, more stiffness in the joints than you are accustomed to, and pain that is agitated by movement. Any confusion or memory loss?"

"I… had a little trouble remembering things when I first woke up, but not anymore."

"Any signs of being forgotten?"

Smiling tiredly, Héctor said, "No. Even with everything else, that… I don't feel like I'm fading anymore. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel… more solid. More anchored in place." Héctor's eyes started slipping closed. "I don't think it's just Coco remembering me now."

"You are improving, Señor. I think you're right about others remembering."

"Just call me 'Héctor.' Everyone does. No need to be so formal."

"If you insist. And how would you describe the pain? Please be honest this time. I need to know how much to adjust the medication that I'm leaving here."

Héctor opened his eyes and glanced towards the doorway, trying to make certain that Imelda hadn't returned yet. He couldn't get the image of her face last night out of his mind. He didn't like seeing her that worried. And he wasn't exactly eager to talk about it anyway. But he also knew that if Dr. García told Imelda that he wasn't cooperating, it wouldn't go over very well with her.

"Everything _aches_ ," he admitted slowly, "but it's not too bad. Moving… Moving fast or a lot isn't a good idea at all. When I tried it last night, it… It hurt. A lot. Worse than when I broke my tibia."

"That should fade with time. You probably don't remember, but you seemed to be in far more pain before you regained consciousness. Just make sure that you take it easy and get plenty of rest. That should help your recovery more than anything else."

Considering how tired he still felt, those directions shouldn't be too difficult to follow. Sleep sounded wonderful. But he couldn't completely ignore the feeling that he shouldn't be there.

This was Imelda's room. This was her home. After so long of being rejected and turned away, he couldn't bury the feeling that he didn't belong. And no matter how much he might want to be with her, Héctor couldn't push things. He didn't have the right. He _left_ her. If he wanted a chance to try and make it right, he wasn't the one who would get to decide things anymore.

Whether what he saw in her on _Día de Muertos_ was pity or actual hope for a second chance, Héctor couldn't risk overstepping. A lot had happened that night. And their new knowledge had changed things. He would give Imelda whatever space that she might need. He couldn't pursue her or court her or beg for forgiveness. He couldn't approach things like he did the first time around. There was too much painful and extensive history between them now. And he refused to risk hurting Imelda again. He would let her take the lead. He would take a step back and let her decide how they should proceed.

It didn't matter what he wanted. He would do whatever it took to make her happy. Whether that meant standing beside her as Imelda's husband once more or leaving her alone or something in between. He would follow her lead and accept whatever type of relationship that she wanted moving forward.

And he wouldn't force her to decide immediately. They had time now. He would give her all the time and space that she might need. He would do whatever it took.

But invading her personal space and her life without giving her a chance to sort out everything on her own probably wasn't the best idea. This was probably too sudden of a change. A couple weeks ago, she wanted nothing to do with him. He shouldn't be here. Not until she was ready. He could accept that.

"So how long do you think it'll take before I'll be able to get up?" asked Héctor.

"Eager to leave?"

Glancing towards the quilt, he mumbled, "Something like that."

He needed to let her decide things. She wouldn't want him to stay. Not yet. She probably brought him to her home out of obligation, pity, and maybe just enough affection to give him hope. She couldn't leave him unconscious backstage of the Sunrise Spectacular. This was probably too sudden for her. He needed to give her some space to sort things out instead of crowding into her afterlife like this.

The entire situation felt like a little much for him as well. All of this was a huge shift from the last several decades of his existence. Especially since he didn't even expect to survive until the end of _Día de Muertos._ It left him a bit overwhelmed and nervous about messing everything up.

A creak of the floorboards caused Héctor to look up. Imelda stepped back into the room, carrying the requested glass in her hands. She handed it to Dr. García. Her expression remained firm and controlled without a hint of her normal warmth, but her gaze never turned towards Héctor. It made him miss the way she held his hand the night before all the more. He missed _her_.

Just follow her lead. Let Imelda decide what she wanted. He needed to let her set the boundaries.

"Well, even if you start feeling better, I strongly suggest staying off that leg until we see if it is going to heal or not," said Dr. García, selecting a smaller bottle from his bag. "And by that, I mean that if you even think of putting any weight on your tibia before I give you permission or if you mess with any of the fractures that I set, I will dislocate your leg and take it with me."

"He's done it before with his patients," Imelda said, briefly meeting Héctor's eyes before turning her attention back to the _médico_. "So you're changing the medicine?"

He nodded and said, "He is showing clear signs of improvement and he isn't experiencing as much pain. This should be enough for him as he recovers."

"As long as I remember not to sit up too quickly," said Héctor, blinking blearily as his weariness started creeping over him again.

Collecting the larger bottle from the bedside table, Dr. García said, "Get some sleep, Héctor. You need all the rest possible."

"Mmm-hmm," murmured Héctor quietly, his eyes already closing almost against his will.

* * *

Stepping out into the hallway, Dr. García wasn't surprised when Imelda spun around and asked quietly, "Is he _really_ doing all right?"

Keeping his voice equally soft out of consideration for the sleeping skeleton, he said, "Being barely remembered for a prolonged period of time weakens the bones, some of the symptoms ending up similar to osteoporosis. Hence why his body seems so fragile and easily broken, even before his near encounter with the Final Death worsened his condition."

He'd seen those symptoms the first time he examined the patient. In several of his bones, it was easy to notice the way they'd grown porous. His hands were the easiest places to notice during his examination. But while Dr. García could still see the damage from the years of barely being remembered, he could also see the evidence of it slowly healing.

Shifting his grip on his bag, Dr. García continued, "Both his pain and fatigue are improving, though he will likely experience both for a while longer. I would predict that he'll continue to spend most of his time asleep, but he should gradually be able to stay awake for longer periods. And while a bit subtle, the discoloration of his bones appears to have improved slightly. Similarly, the colors on his facial markings look better."

"And the stiffness?" asked Imelda quietly.

Gesturing towards the stairs to indicate that they should head down, Dr. García said, "Did you see how easy it was to pull his bones apart?"

" _Sí_ ," she said, leading the way. "Far too easily."

"Memory holds us together. The memories of him were weak. For a long time. But now that he is being remembered, those connections are stronger," described Dr. García. "Not as strong as they should be, but I can see the slight improvement over the past two weeks. And even if we would consider his bones to still be too loose, I would guess that it is better than it has been in many years." As they reached the ground floor, he said, "That's why he thinks he feels stiff. I don't think he's used to his bones trying to hold themselves together anymore."

She frowned thoughtfully, but didn't respond. A moment later, one of the twins poked his head into the room. His sibling quickly followed.

"Imelda? What did—"

"—Dr. García say? Is—"

"—Héctor doing better? We—"

"—were kind of worried—"

"—last night. He was awake, but—"

"—didn't seem to be doing that great."

"He's getting better," she said. "He is sleeping right now, but he's woken up a couple times and seems to remember everything. He just can't move much yet."

"Give him some time and he'll start staying awake for longer periods of time. Just make certain that he takes it easy," said Dr. García. "And don't let him try walking on that leg. I don't care if he's already been doing that before. My patient, my rules."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to recap, Imelda intends to take a step back to emotionally prepare herself because she assumes that Héctor will want to leave again because of everything that's happened. And Héctor intends to take a step back because he doesn't want to push Imelda after everything that's happened and will simply follow her lead moving forward. Anyone else see a problem with this?
> 
> "Risoluto" means the music should be played resolutely. It should have a feeling of stubborn determination to it. And both Imelda and Héctor are stubborn in their own ways.


	15. Sul Tasto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we're all in agreement. Someone seriously needs to smack Imelda and Héctor's skulls together before they make a huge mess of things. But we're not doing that right now. We have other things to take care of first.

Two weeks. His two weeks of being grounded were over. Miguel couldn't stop smiling as the school day ended and he actually had the freedom to go somewhere other than home or the _biblioteca_. And since he no longer had to worry about his family finding out, he could actually go to the plaza. He could go there and actually enjoy the music without fear.

And he wasn't alone this time.

Abel and Rosa didn't look quite as certain as Miguel was as he led them towards their destination, music filling the air and beckoning them closer. But he could see that under their wariness, there was a certain amount of determination in his cousins' faces. They wanted this. They wanted what they could never have before. And Miguel would be the one sharing music with them.

Spreading his arms to indicate the entire plaza and everyone in it, Miguel asked, "Well? Where would you like to start?"

He watched them trying to take in everything. There were musicians scattered all over the plaza, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups. People would occasionally pause to listen to their songs or at least slow down as they walked. Music filled every corner of the plaza. The musicians played different songs on their instruments, but it didn't seem to clash. The notes flowed and faded into each other, almost creating something new and beautiful.

Miguel loved it. He loved how the music seemed to hum and ring through him, like the vibrations reached down to his bones and his heart joined the rhythm. Music always made him feel alive and whole.

Which was ironic since his first real performance was among the dead.

"I don't know," said Abel, his eyes wide. "This… is still pretty new. I still half expect Abuelita to show up."

Rosa nodded stiffly, peering through her glasses as she glanced around at the different people. Miguel could certainly understand their hesitation. They all grew up in the same household. But he also noticed that both of his cousins were shifting back and forth on their feet slightly, subconsciously matching the beat of some of the closest musicians and their current song.

Music was a part of them. A long-denied part, but just as important as making shoes or Mamá Imelda's fire or Tía Rosita's sweetness or Papá Julio's supportiveness. Or Papá Héctor's creativity. Or the love that wove through every member of the family, living and dead.

Looking down at the shorter boy, Abel suggested, "How about you help us decide?"

Banishing the hints of guilt from her face and letting her determination take control, Rosa said, "You're the so-called music expert. What do you suggest?"

Miguel quietly scanned the plaza. The best plan would be to find some musicians who played different instruments. If he could pick a group of them together, that would be even better since his cousins could study several at once. All it would take would be for him to follow his ears. But something caught his eye and Miguel took off running, a smile on his face and his cousins following closely.

" _Hola_ ," he called, waving at the familiar mariachi in the blue suit who was currently sitting on one of the benches in the plaza. "Remember me? You had me shine your shoes a few weeks ago?"

The man blinked in surprise as he turned towards them. Then there was a moment of confusion as he looked at Miguel. But as soon as he recognized Miguel, terror flashed across his face. The guitar music stumbled to a halt. His eyes darted around searchingly.

" _Ay, muchacho_ ," he yelped. "Are you trying to get me attacked again? She hits hard."

Laughing slightly, Miguel said, "Don't worry. Abuelita knows we're here. She won't come after you with _la chancla_ this time. No more music ban."

It took a moment for the man to believe him. He kept glancing over the children's shoulders, as if he fully expected the older woman to materialize out of nowhere and start threatening him with footwear once more. But as Miguel already knew, the most he would see behind them would be Dante as the dog sniffed around for a snack. Eventually, the man started to relax. His shoulders slumped as a small smile began to form.

"I guess that's good for you, little _músico_ ," he said. "Did you seize your moment then?"

Resisting the urge to cringe at the words, Miguel said, "I've played for Mamá Coco and even the rest of my family a few times. And now my cousins are interested too."

"Is that right?" he said, tilting his head to study Abel and Rosa. "Are they fans of Ernesto de la Cruz too?"

"Who?" asked Abel.

"The guy with the statue," Rosa said, gesturing vaguely in the right direction. "Was in a few movies that we never watched and sang some songs?"

"Oh, right. Him."

"I guess that answers _that_ question," muttered the mariachi. Playing a few chords on his guitar, he said, "So the dreaded music ban is finally lifted and your first stop is to visit me? I'm honored."

"Well, Prima Rosa and Primo Abel wanted to learn more about musical instruments. This is the best place to start," Miguel said. Grinning, he added, "If you want to help, I'll give your shoes a free shine next time I'm here."

Chuckling briefly, he said, "Is that right? Then I suppose Eduardo Vegaz is at your service. I needed a break anyway. Just as long as your abuela doesn't come looking for my head." Shifting position slightly, he asked, "So what would you like to know?"

"We want to learn how to play, but my brother and I aren't as interested in the guitar as Miguel is," explained Rosa. "It is nice, but… it isn't us."

"Not every instrument fits every person," Eduardo said with a nod. "Maybe you can learn it anyway. Maybe you can learn to play well. But if it doesn't fit and you don't love it, the music will never sound as good," he said, playing a few notes as a demonstration.

Miguel smiled as the man spoke. For him, there had never been any question. The guitar belonged in his hands the way it belonged in Héctor's. The sound and feel of the instrument spoke to him from the moment that Miguel snuck out and discovered it.

But he couldn't expect them to embrace the exact same things as him. They needed to find the instruments that fit his cousins.

"Let's start with an easy question then. What kind of music do the two of you prefer?" asked Eduardo. "Fast and energetic? Something loud and intense? Or maybe something soft and gentle? Something smooth and romantic, maybe?"

Rosa stared at the man for a moment before remarking dryly, "You really don't seem to grasp the entire music ban concept. We barely know anything about music."

"We've only been allowed to listen to it for about two weeks," Abel added.

"Then we'll work our way around the plaza and see what catches your attention," said Eduardo. "I'll point out some of the better options. I know these guys." Glancing around, he pointed towards another musician and said, "What about the violin? I'm sure one of you will like the violin. My tío, Gustavo, was amazing at the playing that one. He didn't always get along with everyone, but no one could deny his sweet, sweet skills on the violin."

Briefly Miguel wondered if he was talking about the same man that he encountered in the Land of the Dead. The name matched and they both played the violin. Of course, there could be hundreds of violinists with the name. It would probably be too big of a coincidence.

But it could be him.

"And don't think I forgot that you owe me a performance, _muchacho_ ," said Eduardo. "After we sort out your cousins and fix their sorely-neglected education, you can finally show me what you've got."

* * *

Each time that they came down, it seemed less and less ominous. Rosita doubted that she would ever be completely comfortable in the damp and depressing place, but the people were friendly and the atmosphere could be rather upbeat at times. People would greet each other enthusiastically, as if they honestly thought they would never see each other again and were impossibly happy it wasn't true. And there was almost always music in the air.

Unlike her niece, Rosita didn't grow up without music. She and Julio gave it up to join the family. He gave it up to marry Coco and Rosita gave it up because the Rivera family made her feel like she belonged when her mamá's increasingly-obvious disappointment over her lack of interest in any of the men in Santa Cecilia made Rosita feel like a failure. The siblings gave up music for their new lives, but she still remembered listening to and enjoying songs. It was nice to hear it again.

Not to mention that she enjoyed the subtle softening in Victoria's expression when she heard the first few threads of the violin music weaving through Shantytown.

"Prima Victoria! Tía Rosita!" called Carlos, pausing the bow briefly before switching to something sweeter. "How are two of my favorite _señoritas_ today? You look as lovely as ever."

"Hola, Tío Carlos," Rosita called cheerfully, shifting her grip on the boxes in their hands. "We've brought more of the finished shoes."

Chuckling slightly as she wandered out of her ramshackle house, Gabriela yelled, "Primo Juan! Primo Pablo! Move your lazy bones and help them out. Don't make these two _señoritas_ hold those boxes by themselves after carrying them all the way here. I know you have better manners than that."

Smiling at them with the same enthusiasm that they used for each other, the skeletons scurried out of their various barely-intact buildings until the pair were surrounded by the warm greetings. The ragged clothes and yellowed bones made something in Rosita's chest twist, but the excited remarks as they read the labels tied on the shoes and passed them out helped to sooth some of that unsettled feeling. She watched the various people trying on their new Rivera shoes. Some of them were already wearing pairs from their last visit.

Eventually Mamá Imelda would realize what they were doing. So far, Rosita and Victoria were cover the costs of the new shoes. On the books, there was nothing that would reveal anything unusual about the order. But she would figure it out eventually and probably ask why neither of them said a word. The only explanation that they would have on why they kept quiet about the project was that neither Rosita nor Victoria wanted to give her more to worry about. Not when most of her thoughts were on her long-estranged husband.

As for why they were doing it, that was simpler. It was a small gesture in the grand scheme of things. A pair of sturdy and durable shoes wouldn't fix everything that these people were facing. But it was a small way to help. It was something that they could do for these good and kind-hearted people, even if it was small.

"Would you look at that? Your family certainly earned their reputation when it comes to shoes," said Carlos, leaning over Victoria's shoulder as he continued to serenade everyone with his improvised violin. "I notice that you still haven't brought my shoes yet."

"We're working our way down the list. We merely haven't reached yours yet," Victoria said evenly, not even sparing him a glance.

"Saving the best for last? I'm honored." Sweet music swirled around them as he played. "I look forward to seeing what you create. Tell me, _Señorita_. What kind of shoes do you think would suit me best?" He grinned at her, bright and curious. "Or perhaps I should ask what types of shoes that you like to make?"

"We make all types," she said. The faintest hint of a smile twitched across her face, though anyone who didn't watch her grow up might have missed it. Her voice not betraying anything, Victoria said slowly, "I do tend to make _huaraches_. I don't think the style would suit you though."

"You never know."

Rosita had to resist the urge to squeal over the pair. It wasn't exactly direct flirting and they weren't calling each other sweet names, but Rosita wasn't blind. Carlos always seemed to be staring at Victoria when they came down and the subtle moments of approval from her were more than most of the men in Santa Cecilia ever received.

It was a start. A small start, but a start. But sometimes small things were important. Like shoes.

And Rosita would get to watch it develop. She would get to watch their quiet and introverted Victoria with the man who clearly had a crush on her.

"You two are so sweet," said Gabriela, easing up next to her. Pulling back her dress enough to expose her new and sturdy shoes, she said, "And Tío Carlos is right. You weren't exaggerating about the quality. Rivera shoes live up to their reputation."

" _Gracias_ ," Rosita said with a giggle. Smiling, she said, "Oh, and we brought some good news. Héctor finally woke up."

That sent off a round of cheers and the occasional _grito_ from the shabby skeletons. She could make out the occasional cry of "Cousin Héctor," but mostly it was wordless joy. The outburst didn't last very long, several of them wearing themselves out and needing to catch their breath. The enthusiasm outlasted their strength though. It wasn't often that they got to hear about someone who escaped the Final Death and they were clearly happy to hear of his recovery.

"Mamá Imelda said he didn't stay awake very long, but he's getting better," Rosita continued. "I'm sure he'll be up and about before we know it." Leaning closer to Gabriela, she whispered, "And maybe the two of them will even work on rekindling their old relationship."

Chuckling slightly, Gabriela said, "I wish that boy the best of luck with it. He deserves some happiness. As does Tío Carlos." Glancing at him and Victoria as the shoes were distributed around, Gabriela asked quietly, "So does he have a chance with Prima Victoria or should I tell him to let it go?"

"That's up to her. But she doesn't seem to mind his music and she spent her entire life and death without it. That's a good sign. But he'll have to find another way to show his interest in her than with his violin," Rosita said slowly. She wanted to see them as an adorable couple, but Rosita also wanted to make sure that Victoria wouldn't have her heart broken in the process. "He'll have face Mamá Imelda eventually too. That won't be easy."

"No, she's a tough one. We don't even have to meet her to know that."

Rosita couldn't disagree with that assessment. She was a force of nature that no one could deny for long. She was protective and would guard her family from all forms of harm, including the heartache of unfaithful love.

Poor Julio had a difficult time when Mamá Imelda first realized his interest in her daughter. She took him on as an apprentice and taught him to make shoes, claiming that she wanted to ensure that he would have a dependable way to provide for his family someday. But they all knew that she was testing him, watching him closely and ensuring that he met her standards. And Rosita had no doubts that if he failed her unspoken tests or the woman doubted his loyalty towards Coco for an instant, Julio would have been chased from the Rivera household with bruises from her boot heel. But once she was certain that he would do anything to be with Coco, Mamá Imelda eased off and extended her protectiveness towards him as well.

If there was one thing that the entire family knew, it was that Mamá Imelda never wanted any of her descendants to go through the heartache and betrayal that shaped her life so thoroughly. When someone married into the Rivera family, it was because they had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would never abandon the people they loved.

Of course, now that they knew the truth about what happened to Héctor, it seemed excessive and overprotective.

Watching Carlos playing his cobbled-together instrument while his eyes never left Victoria, Rosita said quietly, "But if he doesn't mind that she's a bit quiet and doesn't show that many strong emotions, he might stand a chance."

"I think that's almost all of them for this delivery," said Carlos, peering into the box.

"Just one more pair," Victoria said. Reaching in and pulling them out, she read the label and said, "Primo Teodor? Would you like to come and try them on?"

No one moved, the cheerful conversations falling silent. Rosita could feel the very atmosphere darken as all the talking and music halted. None of them would meet the eyes of the Rivera women. Even Carlos looked away from Victoria for the first time since her arrival. Realization settled on the pair like an unnerving chill.

"Oh…," Rosita said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"We'll hold onto those for now, if you don't mind," said Gabriela gently. "There will eventually be someone who could use them. And he wouldn't want them to go to waste."

"Of course," Victoria said. "Though if someone does end up needing them, let us know. It would be better for us to make them their own shoes. We want to ensure everyone here has shoes that fit properly."

Smiling slightly, Carlos said, "And there's the sweet _señoritas_ that we know."

Rosita watched as they shoved down the rest of their regrets about the loss, trying not to focus on it. The mood began to brighten once again. It was sad to realize how often the Final Death must strike the close-knit community if they could shake off the worst of the heartache. They didn't have the time for prolong mourning or reflection. They would grieve for a little while and then try to enjoy what remained of their afterlives as much as they could.

They didn't forget, but they couldn't dwell. They simply tried to find happiness and companionship while they still could.

She moved around the crowd of ragged skeletons. Within a few moments, Rosita managed to work her way over to a specific one.

Leaning close, Rosita whispered, "Victoria doesn't have much experience with music, but she loves to read. Use that information however you like."

Carlos glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Then he gave Rosita a small nod and brought his bow back up to the instrument. A soft sound wove around them as he drew it across the improvised strings. He coaxed out a new song, but there was a thoughtful expression on his face.

* * *

While _Día de Muertos_ was the busiest time of the year for everyone working at the Marigold Grand Central Station, there was still plenty of work to do the rest of the year. Obviously she couldn't work Departures on any other night though. So most of the time, Helena would handle new arrivals. She and a whole department of people.

It wasn't easy; some people handled their demise better than others. There were therapists on site for a reason after all. There was often denial, tears, fear, attempts at bargaining, begging, anger, and explanations on how they couldn't be dead because there was still so much left for them in life. She had seen a wide variety of reactions in the years that she'd dealt with them. And a day filled with new skeletons trying to wrap their minds around the shock of death and her attempts to guide them through their initial paperwork could be stressful. By the time she stepped off the trolley and started climbing the staircase to her apartment, Helena felt worn out.

Pulling off her hat and rubbing her hand against where her vertebrae met her skull, she forced herself to keep walking. She was already imagining the warm bath that she would claim the moment she came through the door. She might not have skin and sore muscles that the warmth would sooth and ease, but it still felt nice to soak her tired bones and relax. After that, she and her husband would have dinner and enjoy a calm evening together. Maybe they would watch television together, curling up on the couch under a soft blanket and occasionally chuckling over the program. Or maybe they would retire to bed early if the mood struck them. Either way, imagining it kept her climbing the stairs on her aching feet.

Next time she decided to show up uninvited and unexpected on the Rivera's doorstep, she might want to consider ordering a pair of their shoes.

As she reached her floor and once again silently cursed the building supervisor (from the turn of the century) for still thinking that repairing the elevator was an unnecessary project, Helena went ahead and slipped off the shoes she was wearing. It wasn't like anyone was standing around to judge her. The only other apartments on the floor contained her husband's relatives. They wouldn't care. Besides, it felt so much better as she watched the phalange and metatarsal bones shifting, the woman wiggling and stretching her toes to work out the stiffness.

Holding her shoes and hat with one hand, Helena opened the door and slipped inside. Waiting on the table was the basket filled with _pan de muertos_ from their visit on _Día de Muertos._ While she and her husband tried to make the food last as long into the year as possible, the offerings brought back from the Land of the Living not spoiling or growing stale with time like other foods would, Helena thought she deserved a small treat after her long day. Both her cousin and her nephew's wife were amazing when it came to baking, so they bought back quite a bit.

She took a quick bite, smiling at the taste. Just like they wouldn't spoil, offerings from their living relatives always seemed more flavorful and filling. Or when they weren't food, more durable. The popular theory for why was that the love and memories involved gave the offerings left on the _ofrendas_ more… life, for lack of a better description. And there was nothing like _pan de muertos_ baked by your loving family to brighten your day.

"Helena? _Mi amada_?" called her husband. "Is that you?"

"In here, Diego," she said. Helena took a moment to set her shoes down by the door. "It's been a long day. My feet are killing me. Again."

Chuckling briefly at her old joke, Diego stepped into the kitchen. Tall and broad shouldered, he was just as handsome as he was in life. True, silver streaked through his dark hair now. He outlived her by about fifteen years and Helena couldn't deny the evidence. But Diego looked rather distinguished with the extra years on him. And while Helena's facial markings were bright and sunny, his were dark blue stars and yellow curves that evoked thoughts of crescent moons. She loved lying in bed while he slept and tracing the patterns across his face.

"You got a letter today, _mi amada_ ," said Diego, holding up an envelope. "Someone even sprang for same-day delivery. It must be important."

Blinking in confusion, Helena reached over and started opening the envelope. When she unfolded the letter and saw the short note, that confusion cleared up. It only took a moment to read over it and the message sparked a broad grin.

"Something good, Helena?"

Glancing towards him, she said, "Very good. Remember Héctor?"

"That poor soul from the bridge? The one you talked about?" said Diego with a nod. "Were you right about him being involved in that Sunrise Spectacular fiasco? I remember how you reacted that morning."

" _Sí_ ," she said with a nod of her own. "I've been worried about him. But the letter is about Héctor. It says he is getting better now. I didn't even expect him to survive _Día de Muertos,_ but he's actually getting better."

Diego stepped over and wrapped his arms around her. She relaxed into the hug, letting the solid embrace comfort her. Her smile grew a bit warmer as her cheekbone settled against his collarbone.

"I'm happy for you, _mi amada_ ," said Diego softly, rocking her side to side. "I am happy that your friend is going to be all right."

Helena shook her head slightly. She couldn't call Héctor a friend. She only saw him once a year and only in a professional setting. She didn't know him well enough to be considered a friend. He might not even recognize her away from the Marigold Grand Central Station. But she did care about his well-being.

After a few decades of watching him trying relentlessly to get home, Helena couldn't imagine a _Día de Muertos_ without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at all the background characters in this chapter. We get the mariachi in the blue outfit from the beginning of the film, our favorite Departures agent, and all the extras from Shantytown. It's always nice to see how things are going for everyone.
> 
> "Sul tasto" is an instruction for string instruments, such as a guitar or a violin. It indicates for the player to pluck or draw the bow across the strings over the fingerboard. As the name suggests, the fingerboard is usually where the fingers would press down to change the notes. The result of playing over the fingerboard is that the instrument produces a duller and gentler tone, giving the music a more ethereal sound. And since this is another chapter with the violin being important, I thought this would be a good chapter title.


	16. Sentimento

Miguel honestly believed that they must have circled the plaza twice, listening to the different instruments carefully while musicians showed off their skills. While the obvious reason that they were going around to them was to help Abel and Rosa find instruments that suited them, Miguel and probably Eduardo were also trying to introduce the pair to the different styles and types of music that existed. Every performance, the musicians trying to show off and have fun as they demonstrated their preferred instruments for a completely innocent audience, was new and novel experience for Miguel's cousins. And the musicians would rarely get to perform for people so inexperienced with any form of music and seemed to like the unique challenge. The fact that their efforts attracted larger crowds was only a bonus.

But it was certainly a long process. There were several musicians in the plaza and more seemed to show up over time, perhaps gossip from the others letting them know that there was a chance to show off. And while Rosa instantly loved the violin from the first song, Abel had a harder time. He liked them all and didn't seem to have a preference for the longest time. But as the sky started to show the first hints of the approaching sunset, he started leaning towards one instrument.

Though Miguel certainly didn't expect for him to be drawn to the _accordion_.

After that, Eduardo managed to coax Miguel into a performance of his own. He even loaned the boy his guitar. And after all the man's help and what happened with Abuelita, how could Miguel refuse?

Miguel did struggle briefly on the issue of what song to play. "Remember Me" wasn't an option. At all. "Un Poco Loco" would be familiar to the mariachi as Ernesto de la Cruz's song while Rosa and Abel knew it as Papá Héctor's creation due to Miguel playing it for Mamá Coco. They knew that it was written for Mamá Imelda. That song only provoke a lot of questions that Miguel couldn't answer. He finally decided on "The World Es Mi Familia" because his cousins hadn't heard it yet and he felt rather confident with the song. He could easily play it and no one would argue over who wrote it.

Not yet anyway.

The cheerful applause from Abel and Rosa was nice. The approving nod from the mariachi left him feeling similarly warmed. The small crowd who wandered over to listen reminded him of his adventure in the Land of the Dead. The entire experience left Miguel smiling. He didn't expect the handful of pesos from the audience afterwards, but Eduardo said he'd earned it and that he was quite the talented performer.

It was certainly growing late by the time they left the plaza, Rosa and Abel chatting excitedly as they went. Miguel, however, took a slight detour rather than heading straight home. With his backpack weighed down with school supplies and thick books with dozens of pieces of scrap paper tucked into the pages, Miguel wove his way towards the _biblioteca_.

He didn't run this time. Miguel wandered slowly while Dante padded loyally beside him. The dozens of new songs from the afternoon floated through his head. Since most of the songs weren't performed on guitars, he couldn't watch the fingerings to learn them. He would just have to experiment and play it by ear to figure out how to adapt the songs. He was humming the catchiest one by the time he reached the building.

Once again, Miguel was hit by the sheer silence of the _biblioteca_. The later hour hadn't made a difference. It remained quiet and relatively empty of life. His humming died down, unable to continue in the face of the smothering silence.

" _Hola_." The librarian poked her head out of the stacks of the books. "Welcome back, Miguel."

Waving at her, he said, " _Hola_." Shifting his backpack slightly as he spoke, Miguel said, "I know I'm supposed to return the books soon, but can I keep them a little longer? It's… it's a lot to read through."

"Understandable. You wanted some rather dense and detailed books. I suppose I can renew them and let you keep the books for a couple more weeks," said the librarian. She gestured towards her desk. "I have some copies of the documents that I promised. And Señor Tomás Estévez's book, 'Music, Memories, and Myth: The Mysteries Behind Ernesto de la Cruz' is here. It should have all the conspiracy theories that you might be looking for."

Miguel grinned broadly. While the general research in the other books was helpful, it just wasn't enough. Not by themselves. But if it was easy to prove that Ernesto de la Cruz was a lying, music-stealing, and selfish murderer, then someone would have done it years ago. The man hid the truth too well. But Miguel had one main advantage over those people: he knew what he was looking for. He just needed to comb through all the material possible for the evidence.

" _Gracias_. And if you don't mind," continued Miguel, digging out the pesos from his pocket, "could you make me a few more copies of the _foto_ like last time?"

The actual original picture was at home in a new frame, properly displayed for the family to view. But Miguel had one of the paper copies tucked into his backpack, which he proceeded to slide off his shoulders so that he could dig it out. A few more copies of the _foto_ wouldn't hurt. The more pictures of Héctor that their family had, the better.

"Of course," she said. "But perhaps you could do a small favor for me."

As she stepped behind her desk and pulled out a stack of paper, Miguel said, "Sure. What kind of favor?"

She dropped the stack of paper with a dull _thump_. Miguel could see old documents, neatly photocopied on new sheets of paper. He could already tell reading through it would give him a headache. But he could also glimpse where she'd highlighted certain parts of the copies. That was nice of her. Maybe it would make it easier.

"Tell me the truth, Miguel Rivera."

He stiffened at her words. He turned them over in his head, trying to find another meaning than what he was coming up with. What did she know? What did she suspect? Did she know about what Miguel was trying to prove? He didn't have enough proof yet. He couldn't face down all of Santa Cecilia and their faith in Ernesto de la Cruz. Not yet.

"I… don't know what you mean?" said Miguel, the last words twisting it up into a question.

She plucked the _foto_ from his hands before he even saw the librarian move. Panic fluttered in his chest as he grabbed for it, reminding Miguel too much of how another picture was torn from his grip as he plunged off a building. But she held it just out of reach as she stared at him.

"There is no school project. If there was, then the other children would be here as well, looking for books for their own topics," she said firmly. "And not a single person in Santa Cecilia wouldn't recognize the guitar in your _foto_."

This time, Miguel managed to snatch the picture back. Once he reassured himself that it was safe, he glanced back at her. He still had no clue what to expect. He didn't know what she was thinking or what she would do.

Tightening his fingers on the _foto_ , Miguel asked, "What do you know, _Doña_?"

"I know that your great-great-grandfather, Héctor, lived at the Orfanato de la Cruz during the same time frame as Ernesto," she said, pulling a sheet from the pile and sliding it towards him. Repeating with the next sheet of paper, the librarian continued, "And while it would normally be kept in the court house, they moved some of the older files here for storage during renovations and they never got around to reclaiming them. So here is a copy of the marriage certificate for Héctor and Imelda Rivera with one of the four mentioned witnesses listed as Ernesto de la Cruz." She moved to the next page. "The census for 1920 isn't completely reliable due to the instability of that entire stretch of history, but it has Ernesto's place of residence as a few streets away from Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, and their child, Socorro Rivera."

"Mamá Coco," Miguel said with a cautious nod.

"The census also lists both men's occupations as musicians, though it is likely that they supplemented their income working odd jobs around Santa Cecilia before Ernesto de la Cruz's rise to fame. And while I expected his absence from the 1930 census since Ernesto de la Cruz would be working on his songs and his movies during that time period, it is interesting that Héctor Rivera is no longer mentioned. Imelda Rivera, with her occupation now listed as a _zapatera_ , is stated to live only with her daughter and her brothers, Oscar Rivera and Felipe Rivera. But even though Héctor Rivera never reappears on the census, Imelda remained listed as married."

"Papá Héctor left in 1921 and after his letters stopped, no one ever heard from him again," Miguel explained. "Mamá Imelda believed that he abandoned his family, but I think there was something else that kept him from coming home."

"Is that what you're looking for? An explanation for what happened to Héctor Rivera?"

"Among other things," he admitted.

Miguel stared at her, trying to decide what to say. She'd found out a lot of information and she clearly wasn't blind. She was noticing things.

But how much? How much did she know or guess? Would she believe the truth? Could he trust her?

Could she help him?

"What do you think all of this means?" he asked carefully.

"From the documents, we can tell that your great-great-grandfather grew up with Ernesto de la Cruz and that they were close enough that Héctor Rivera invited him to serve as a witness at his wedding. They both were musicians and both left Santa Cecilia within the same decade. Possibly even at the same time. Your comment about him leaving in 1921 would match the time frame established with Ernesto's history," said the librarian. "And from what kind of books you were looking for, you're interested in Ernesto de la Cruz's early history. Specifically, something that he wouldn't admit or talk about since you didn't want autobiographies, so you're searching through other books to see if someone else uncovered the information. Which is something that most people would consider to be a conspiracy theory. Something that probably connects to Héctor Rivera."

Nodding slowly, Miguel said, " _Sí_. You're right."

"Can you tell me more?"

"No," he said. "Not yet. I need… I need proof. More proof."

He rubbed his thumb along the paper copy of Héctor's _foto_. This couldn't be like when he discovered the guitar in the picture and tried to tell everyone immediately. That impulsiveness could ruin everything. If he messed up, it wouldn't just be his family freaking out. It would be the entire town. Or even all of Mexico. He would only get one chance to expose the truth. If he didn't have enough proof to at least earn their curiosity, then they would decide that he was a liar and anything he found later would be considered more lies.

He needed to be able to convince everyone. He needed enough evidence to face down decades of belief. But… maybe he could also use an ally.

"I have letters," he said slowly. "Letters from Papá Héctor. And I have Mamá Coco's stories. He left to tour with Ernesto de la Cruz in 1921. Both the letters and stories say that. And he never came home." He shifted awkwardly, trying to decide how much more to say. "I… I have some suspicions, but I can't tell you yet. Not until I have enough proof that maybe you'll believe me. So I have to keep looking. But I'm getting close. And the stuff you found really helps."

She stared at him silently for a moment, searching for something in his expression. Miguel didn't know what she was looking for, but the librarian seemed to find it. Her eyes slowly softened and she gave a small nod.

"If you _do_ find what you need, are you going to tell people?" asked the librarian.

Miguel gave his own small nod. It was his ultimate goal. Unfortunately, he wasn't exactly certain about the details of that part of the plan. But he would figure it out eventually.

"Are people going to be… upset about what you're trying to prove?"

He nodded again. No one would be happy about the truth. But he couldn't let Ernesto de la Cruz be remembered and beloved by the world when Héctor was nearly forgotten. It wasn't fair. The man's lies needed to be exposed.

"Then when you have enough evidence, perhaps you could share it with me," said the librarian. "If… if it is as big as I'm suspecting, I may know a way to share it without people realizing it came from you. Assuming that I agree that what you uncover seems accurate. Whatever you want to prove concerning Ernesto de la Cruz and Héctor Rivera, it might be more credible if people can't claim that his great-great-grandson is trying to stir up controversy."

After a moment of silence, Miguel grinned brightly. Apparently he had the next step in his plan after all. He could wait to tell Mamá Coco that they had more help.

* * *

This time when he started to stir, he wasn't hit by the feeling of disorientation as he tried to remember where he was. Héctor knew he was lying on a comfortable bed. Imelda's bed. In Imelda's bedroom. In Imelda's home. The thought both warmed him and left him anxious.

Trying to keep still and let his aching bones rest on the soft mattress, pillow, and quilt, Héctor slowly opened his eyes. The light streaming in from outside had taken on a red-orange tint, suggesting that it was late afternoon or evening and that he'd slept through the entire day. No one else was in the room this time, leaving it quiet. There was no one holding his hand, an absence that he should be used to and yet…

Creaking floorboards and quiet footsteps drew his attention towards the doorway. A short and sturdy skeleton, one with a large mustache and facial markings consisting of dots running above his eye sockets and a few green and orange curls on his chin, walked into view. Héctor watched him startle abruptly upon catching sight of the tired skeleton, the short man nearly dislodging his hat in surprise before scrambling into the room.

"You're awake again," yelped the man. He pulled his hat tighter, the brim bending around his skull. "Sorry about that. We didn't think you needed constant attention anymore, but one of us have been checking on you every hour or so. How do you feel? Should I get you some more medicine? Should I tell Mamá Imelda?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine," he interrupted, trying to calm down the anxious-looking skeleton. "Just tired and sore. I… I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name."

Ducking his head briefly while claiming the chair next to the bed, the short skeleton said, "That's all right. _Día de Muertos_ was a rather hectic night and we didn't get much time to talk." He shifted nervously, as if someone could actually find a barely-conscious and motionless Héctor intimidating. "My name is Julio. And I'm… Well, you see… I am the one that… Back when I was alive… I am…"

"Should I come back later to see how you finish that sentence?" he asked with a slight teasing tone, trying to put the nervous man at ease. "I don't know what I did to scare you, but you can talk to me. We're supposed to be family, right?"

The last bit came out a little quieter than Héctor intended it to be. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that yes, he _was_ part of the family again. It had been a long time. And even through Héctor was uncertain of the exact relation in this case, he wanted to know every member of his long-estranged family now that he finally had the chance. But part of him was afraid of pushing too hard or too fast and how easily Héctor could lose everything that he'd miraculously gained.

Taking a deep breath and cringing in anticipation, his skull nearly burrowing into his ribcage, Julio said, "I'm… Coco's husband. That's how we're family."

He forced himself not to react, remembering how badly it hurt the last time he moved abruptly. But Héctor couldn't stop the surprise and the quiet regret over the missed time that the news sparked in him. He _knew_ that his daughter had grown up and married. How else would he end up with a great-great-grandson? If Coco didn't meet and marry someone, then Miguel wouldn't exist. But even though he _knew_ she'd grown up, married, had children, and grown old in the decades since he left home, Héctor still saw his small child when he closed his eyes. He still remembered her as being young and tiny enough to be scooped up in his arms rather than a woman old enough to be the wife to the short, bald, and mustached skeleton sitting beside him.

He missed her growing up. He missed her falling in love. He missed Coco's entire life.

But Julio was there. This short skeleton who was brave enough to attack Ernesto's security personnel and yet clearly nervous to meet his wife's papá… This man was the one that Coco chose to marry.

"Do you love her?" Héctor asked quietly.

"Yes. I love her, Victoria, and Elena more than anything in life or death," said Julio without hesitation.

"Was she happy?"

Glancing down briefly, he said, "I… I think she was. I hope she was. I still don't know why she chose me of all people. I don't know what I did to be worthy of her, but she seemed happy to have me." He met Héctor's eyes again. "I love her and against all odds, Coco seemed to love me enough to share a life together, to share children, and to even share grandchildren and great-grandchildren."

Héctor recognized that look in the man's eyes. He knew it intimately. It was honest and unwavering love for someone he desperately missed.

But Julio's shoulders were hunched as he spoke, as if awaiting judgment. Or perhaps awaiting harsh accusations that he didn't deserve her.

"That's all I wanted for Coco," Héctor said quietly. "For her to be happy and loved by someone."

He gave a tired smile, his regret at missing so much of his daughter's life briefly outweighed by the knowledge that it was a long and good one. Julio looked surprised by his words. But then, he didn't know his father-in-law. He probably expected a harsher conversation. As if Héctor could _ever_ treat someone his daughter loved with that type of suspicion and distrust.

As if Héctor would ever react as Imelda's papá did.

Though that man turned out to be right in the end… Héctor did break her heart… He did leave his family alone…

"Just promise that you won't hurt her… Not like I did…"

Julio stared at him for a moment as Héctor tried to drag his thoughts away from that familiar and darker path. He didn't want to dwell on how much he hurt Imelda and Coco. Not now. He was too tired to think about the guilt that he'd been bearing for so long. He wanted to focus on his daughter's happiness instead.

"I think I would have preferred a scary father-in-law conversation to one who is good at threatening with guilt," muttered Julio.

"Imelda was always better at being intimidating than me."

Julio chuckled quietly, nodding in agreement. Then, climbing out of the chair and walking across the room, he plucked a picture frame from the dresser. He carefully handed it towards Héctor, helping him get a grip with minimal necessary movement.

Moving slowly and wincing at the sharp pain that jolted through his aching joints, Héctor closed his fingers around the frame. Julio had brought over the wedding picture that he'd glimpsed before. His Coco looked beautiful and so happy, a young woman in lovely dress holding onto a slightly shorter young man with an impressive mustache. Now that he knew what to look for, Héctor could recognize Julio standing with her. The _foto_ captured a moment of absolute love between the pair. Héctor felt a smile tugging at his face as he stared into his daughter's eyes.

"She looks so much like Imelda did on her wedding day," he whispered.

"It completely stole my breath away when I saw her like that," said Julio. "Coco nearly distracted me from the actual wedding itself."

"I could barely hear the words. I couldn't stop staring at Imelda the whole time."

"I nearly fainted before it was over."

"That morning, she was the most beautiful thing I could have ever imagined. And I already thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world."

Héctor smiled wistfully, remembering that wonderful day. Everything about it seemed so perfect. And Imelda was the most perfect part of all.

" _Mi amor. Mi vida. Mi alma_ ," he whispered, familiar words that hadn't been spoken by him in so long and that Héctor wasn't certain he was still allowed to use. Then, a little louder, he said, "But as beautiful as Imelda was and still is, it seems that Coco grew up to be just as pretty."

"Pretty, smart, kind, loving," described Julio, "and despite everything, a wonderful dancer."

"Just like her mamá."

He glanced up briefly, meeting Julio's gaze. The distant and dreamy look in his eyes was similar to the one that Héctor saw in reflections when he thought about Imelda. He slowly turned his attention back down to the _foto_ in his grip, staring at the black-and-white image of his daughter.

"Can…," Héctor began, his voice shaking a little against his will, "can you… tell me more about her?"

He'd missed everything. He missed watching his daughter grow up into a wonderful person. He knew so little about who she grew up to be. But Héctor desperately wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about her that he missed. He wanted every possible sliver of information about her. He'd been denied even a glimpse of Coco for almost a century and the possibility of reconnecting to her even through stories was something that he practically _ached_ for.

Julio smiled and nodded, settling back in his chair. Héctor tried to sink further into the pillow. He did his best to ignore the dull aches and the weariness pulling at him, staring at the _foto_ quietly. He knew he would drift off soon. He could feel it. But not yet.

"The first time I saw Coco was in the plaza," described Julio slowly. "She'd snuck away so that she could go dancing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, fun fact. There is now a [TvTrope Page](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/LikeAGentleRefrain) for this story as well as a recommendation that someone made. You are perfectly welcome to go and add stuff to it if you want.
> 
> "Sentimento" essentially means to play with feeling or emotion. As you can probably guess, the music should sound very sentimental to the listener.


	17. Brillante

"…And then Julio ran home immediately after she left and practically begged me for advice," Rosita said, chuckling at the memory. "He knew that even if she enjoyed dancing, she would still want to talk eventually and my poor brother had no clue what to t say to a pretty girl. He was in a panic that he would say something dumb and chase her off. Which seems silly now, but he didn't know much about her yet and Julio was always worried a bit. So as a good and supportive sister, I made him sit down, drink some water to calm down, and told him that maybe a good place to start would be to tell each other their _names_."

That sent Héctor chuckling slightly, trying to hide the slight cringe when his amusement caused too much movement and shook his frame more than he intended. But the quiet laughter was worth the slight pain. He could easily picture the man doing exactly that. Especially based on the stories that Julio shared before Héctor drifted back to sleep earlier.

Staying awake for any length of time was proving to be a challenge, even with someone talking to him. But he managed to hear a few wonderful stories about his daughter before falling asleep. And when he woke up again, Héctor found another eager relative checking on him.

Rosita lit up when she realized he was awake. Her initial enthusiastic reaction, the bright smile and attempt to scoop him up in a tight hug, didn't go over smoothly. But in her defense, she didn't know how much moving hurt and she immediately apologized for her excited embrace. And he appreciated the gesture and kindness behind it. Once the worst of the pain faded and he assured Rosita that he wasn't mad, the sweet-natured skeleton started talking to him. While Héctor and Julio mostly focused on Coco, Rosita seemed eager to share stories about the entire family.

"Well, he eventually managed to learn her name," she continued. "And they kept meeting up every chance they could to dance in the plaza. You could always tell when Julio spent the afternoon with her. There would be a distracted look in his eyes and a smile that refused to fade." She smiled to herself at the memory. "He completely fell for her from the start. It was adorable to watch him. Especially when he got all flustered from talking about Coco. But they couldn't keep their occasional romantic rendezvous secret forever. Mamá Imelda found out that Coco was sneaking out to listen to music and dance with a young man in the plaza. Poor Julio was scared to death about that. He came home in a complete panic after _that_ conversation. She can be quite intimidating."

Chuckling softly, Héctor said, "She was always fierce. Even when we were children. You should have seen Imelda chasing after Oscar and Felipe when they tried to spy on us and tease her."

"I can imagine,' Rosita said with her own chuckle. "No matter how old they got, neither of them could apparently stay out of trouble for long."

Héctor smiled at her words. It was reassuring to hear that some things never change. There was so much chaos and change in his existence lately when it seemed like he was stuck in a constant cycle for almost a century. Tumbling right in the middle of this family, half of them practically strangers to him, was enough to make his skull spin.

There was so much to deal with now. After so long with almost nothing except fragile hope, it was overwhelming to be handed so much all at once. He loved it. He loved being surrounded by his family and getting to know them. And he loved the possibility of a second chance with Imelda. But he was admittedly nervous. He finally had something worth losing again. Héctor didn't want to say or do the wrong thing and ruin it. Not again.

Rosita seemed easy-going and friendly, so it would probably take a serious mistake to upset her. Hopefully. He could probably relax when it was just her. He probably didn't have to worry as much.

But as meek and nervous as Julio seemed, the man loved Coco and might hold a grudge on her account. He seemed willing to share stories and talk. But Héctor planned to be careful not to damage their hesitant start.

Oscar and Felipe would be trickier; they remembered Before and would have watched the fallout. On the one hand, Héctor knew them already. That might give him an advantage. On the other, that familiar history might make the normally-relaxed twins react more sharply to anything that Héctor did wrong.

And Imelda…

Maybe he had a chance to make things right with her. Maybe Imelda's kindness, both on that night and now, might be more than pity and a feeling of obligation. Maybe if he took his time and followed her lead, he could… he could…

But it would be so easy to shatter whatever fragile thing that might exist between them now.

So even as he tried to embrace and enjoy the warmth of being included by his family, Héctor couldn't forget that it might be temporary. He knew that he had a knack for ruining things. He would cherish these tidbits and scraps of affection while he could.

Embracing, enjoying, and cherishing these precious moments was better than focusing on how terrified he was that he would cause it all to be snatched away again.

"Well, since I told you how Julio and Coco met," said Rosita, smiling coyly, "perhaps you could tell me about how you and Mamá Imelda met?"

A fond smile twitched into place. No matter the undercurrent of worry, no matter how his bones ached dully, and no matter how weariness tugged at him, he couldn't resist that memory. It warmed and comforted him in his darkest and loneliest moments, when he was at his lowest points. There were a few treasured memories that he held close when it grew tough.

Their wedding was one such memory. The day that Coco was born was another. And his first memory of Imelda was yet another.

"We didn't properly meet then, but we both saw each other that day," he began slowly.

"Was it love at first sight?" asked Rosita.

"Well, I can't speak for her," he said, "but no. It wasn't love at first sight for me."

A small look of shock and disappointment briefly crossed her face. But Héctor was still talking.

"I didn't even see her. Not at first. I was nine years old at the time. It was in the plaza. Ernesto and I were lurking there, practicing a few songs." Héctor tried to ignore the fresh wave of loss, anger, and hurt that thinking about his former friend caused. "And suddenly, I heard the most beautiful voice singing along."

He closed his eyes, remembering how it sounded. How it _felt_. Warm, soft, and bright. Like a glowing candle. Or a fire crackling peacefully, perfect to curl up next to at the end of a long day. Her voice wrapped around you gently, but also plunged deep into your core and grabbed tight. The first time hearing her sing was an experience that his child self could barely put into words. And his reaction to her voice never grew any less intense.

"Oh my…," whispered Rosita in an awestruck voice.

 _Oh_. Héctor would have ducked his head slightly in response if he didn't want to risk the pain. He didn't even realize that he said any of that part out loud. He must be more tired than he assumed. They'd been talking for a while already. Héctor suspected that he would fall back asleep soon.

He was growing a little frustrated with how tired and sore that he still felt. Keeping motionless all the time was even more frustrating.

"Her sing caught my attention first that day," he said finally, eyes still closed. "That's what I first learned about Imelda. And then I saw her, already taking care of Oscar and Felipe as they walked with their mamá. She was so pretty. As pretty as her voice. And her song… I was just a boy, but I fell in love with her song. I loved her. And everything that I learned later, everything I discovered once I had the chance to get to know her better… It only made me love her more. Whenever I thought that I loved her as much as humanly possible, she somehow managed to make me love her even more."

He smiled drowsily, his thoughts about his wife and those better days warming his bones. Just like it always did.

"And I never stopped…"

Héctor could feel himself dozing back off. The weariness pulled at him, coaxing him to give into the comfort of the bed, the dull aches that were so slow to fade, and the warm memories that promised to transform into pleasant dreams. Dr. García warned that he needed plenty of rest to recover and it wouldn't be wise to disobey his orders. Héctor refused to fight the urge to sleep. He was too tired to bother.

His thoughts still filled with comforting memories as he slipped back towards sleep, he thought he heard Rosita say, "That's so romantic."

* * *

There weren't really stars in the sky in the Land of the Dead any more than there was a moon. Or maybe there was merely too much surrounding lights combined with the fog-like haze that made it difficult to identify where exactly the horizon might be. The sun could be easily seen in the sky, but perhaps any possible stars were simply too dim to reach them.

Regardless, Imelda couldn't sit outside in the evening and stare at the stars. Instead, under the guise of spending some time with Pepita after dinner, she had found a comfortable spot to look out at the lights of the city. While not as lively as it could get around _Día de Muertos_ , the bright colors were almost as relaxing to stare at as the stars might have been. The sight was rather soothing and Pepita purring at her back vibrated all the way down to the marrow of Imelda's bones.

She'd been sleeping better. At least mostly. Nightmares and worries over finding an empty bed in the morning were long gone. The dreams that replaced them, while still about him no longer being around, didn't hurt quite as much. And ever since Héctor started waking up and talking with them for short periods of time, everything seemed to be growing easier on everyone. They weren't staying up all night to watch over him anymore. They would check on him during the day, but they could finally catch back up on their sleep and their work. For the most part, Imelda felt more like herself than she had in a couple weeks.

But the knowledge that all of this was temporary somehow kept bothering her. It _shouldn't_. Imelda lived most of her life without Héctor. And her entire death. She was more accustomed to his absence than his presence. And he probably wouldn't completely stay away. He would want to see Coco again at a minimum. And most importantly, Héctor didn't disappear into the Final Death. No matter what happened next, he wasn't completely gone. He would only be gone from her afterlife.

Leaning back onto the warm fur of her alebrije, Imelda closed her eyes. She knew that he would want to leave. She knew that there was no other possible outcome for them. Not without far too much pain for both of them. Imelda knew Héctor would leave.

But it still hurt when she overheard Héctor asking Dr. García when he could get out of her bed. When he could _leave_. He could barely stay awake for any stretch of time and he could barely move without pain, but he was already eager to go. Only his lack of energy, his broken bones, and his inability to move kept him from walking out the door already. But as soon as he healed, Héctor would be gone.

He would leave her. Part of her rebelled against it while another sought it; decades of hating Héctor for leaving her and Coco reacting to that small hurt lashed out even as she foolishly wished to hold him tight and never let go.

But it would hurt less this way. And she couldn't blame him for leaving. Not this time. Not after everything that happened. Imelda refused to cause him any further pain. This was the best option.

She was keeping her distance. She was pulling back and trying to avoid him. Especially during those brief moments where he was awake. Imelda would still glance in on him, but the rest of the family seemed to be doing it more often than she was. If they noticed the change, none of her relatives commented.

"This is for the best," she said, running her hand over the bright fur.

Pepita turned her head and nudged Imelda. And just as she did when her companion was much smaller, the woman scratched gently behind the feline's ears.

"It's true. We'll both be happier in the long run," she said. "This way, neither of us gets hurt."

Her alebrije stared at her with one giant yellow eye. Imelda scowled hat her.

"What are my other options? We can't go back to how we used to be and trying would only hurt. It'll hurt us both far more than this. We're better off this way. Once he's feeling better, Héctor will leave and everything will go back to how they were before." She shifted slightly, trying to ignore the tightness in her ribcage. "I don't need him to stay. I haven't needed him in a long time. When he leaves, I will be perfectly fine."

Somehow Pepita managed to give her a deadpan and disbelieving stare in response without even twitching a whisker. Her unwavering yellow gaze couldn't be mistaken for anything other than disapproval. Felines were naturally talented at such expressions.

"I _will_ be fine. I have you. I have my family. And I have the truth finally and I'll have the knowledge that Héctor is safe. That's enough, Pepita. That will be enough for me."

* * *

As long as he kept his movements slow and easy, Héctor could move a little now. The dull aches remained, but he could avoid the sharper spikes of pain without needing to remain perfectly still. He didn't have the strength to try standing. He knew that much. But even slow and subtle progress was better than nothing. And it made it easier to keep himself occupied during his brief moments awake.

Especially if he wasn't alone.

"And I believe I win this round as well," said Héctor, slowly setting down his cards on the blanket.

Shaking his head as he stared at the winning hand, Oscar said, "When did you get this good? I don't remember you playing cards much."

"Though to be fair, we were fifteen the last time we saw him," muttered Felipe as he gathered the deck back together.

Forcing himself to ignore the reminder of how long he was gone and trying to be thankful that the twins were mentioning it in a way that didn't blamed him, Héctor said, "There's not always a lot to do for people like me. Cards are easy to get a hold of, don't require a lot of energy or movement that could knock loose your bones, and can distract you for a while. I already knew the basics when I was alive and I've been practicing since then."

"And now you can rob us blind," Oscar said, eyes the pile of buttons, shoelaces, spools of thread, and other random objects being used for their betting.

"How do you even _have_ a poker face?" asked Felipe.

"Simple. If I don't stop smiling, then you can't tell what I'm thinking or if something is wrong."

Héctor didn't miss the slight flinch from the twins at his words. He didn't intend for that. He was trying to rebuild his old bonds with Oscar and Felipe, not make them uncomfortable.

At least it seemed to be going relatively smoothly. They hadn't mentioned him leaving Imelda and Coco alone. They hadn't mentioned how much he hurt his family. There had been no accusations of any kind. They seemed content to ignore that entire bundle of issues for the moment, instead remarking that he must be growing bored of spending so much time in bed and asking if he wanted to play a game.

Exchanging brief looks with his brother that seemed to contain a great deal of information, Oscar said, "So I guess we should consider you the winner then. Want to exchange that stuff for your prize?"

"What? A greater prize than my current winnings?" Héctor asked with a wry grin, gesturing carefully at the random items from the twins' aprons. Giving them a teasing and slightly suspicious look, he asked, "Is it something you two made? I remember the kinds of things that you used to think up and Rosita mentioned a few stories. Not to mention I remembered what happened to your parents' dog. Should I be worried?"

"That was a century ago," said Felipe, rolling his eyes. "And we're not children anymore. We're responsible."

"Completely responsible," Oscar added. "And we didn't make it. We—"

"—just picked it up last year. And we ended up sneaking a few into our room since—"

"—Rosita has a bit of a sweet tooth. It was the only way to make sure we didn't run out too soon. But we grabbed an odd number accidentally, so—"

"—we ended up with one extra. Which is good since with everything that happened—"

"—this _Día de Muertos_ , none of us got to visit the _ofrenda_. But since it wouldn't be fair for one of us to have it—"

"—and not the other, it makes more sense for _you_ to have it."

Watching the pair complete each other's' sentences felt familiar, even after so long. They were always good at knowing what their sibling was thinking. It was part of the reason that most people had trouble telling Oscar and Felipe apart: their words and actions matched more often than not. They weren't exactly the same though. There were subtle expressions and differences in their body language that someone who knew them could pick up on. It was those little differences that mattered.

But even if he could tell the difference between the twins, Héctor couldn't figure out what they were talking about this time. And when Felipe stepped out of the room, Héctor still had no clue what they were up to. But Oscar smiled like they'd had the best idea in the world. Which was very similar to how he and Felipe looked when the two of them were ten years old… right before they fell off the roof.

"Got it," said Felipe cheerfully, holding something up. "Last one from about a year ago. Good thing offerings don't go stale."

Héctor stiffened at the words, finally recognizing the _pan de muerto_ in Felipe's hand for what it was. A _pan de muerto_. From an _ofrenda_. An actual offering from an _ofrenda_ in the Land of the Living.

He knew that he shouldn't be staring so much. Almost everyone had received at least a small offering at some point and _pan de muertos_ were fairly common choices. The delicious sweet bread ended up on almost every _ofrenda_. Even most of the people in Shantytown had received something small before they wandered down there, before the living began to forget them. But not him. Never him.

As Felipe reached it towards him, Héctor hesitated. It wasn't meant for him. The living members of the Rivera family left the _pan de muerto_ on the _ofrenda_ for the others. For Imelda, the twins, Julio, and the others. Not for him. They wanted nothing to do with him. He didn't deserve the leftover offering. He didn't deserve it. They wanted to ignore and forget him.

But not Coco. He wouldn't be here otherwise. And not Miguel. And since he felt more solid and stable than he'd felt in decades, maybe not the others in the family.

Maybe, even if they didn't leave it for him then, it would be all right to accept it now.

Somehow managing to keep from shaking, Héctor slowly took the offered _pan de muerto_. Hunger wasn't really that extreme for the dead. It could be ignored beyond a vague emptiness. After all, they couldn't starve to death and when you dwell in Shantytown with almost no resources, it was simpler to go without. Héctor couldn't remember the last time that he ate anything.

And when he _did_ last eat, it was cheap food from the Land of the Dead made from the ingredients that ended up among the dead. Anything not brought back on _Día de Muertos_ came by more unusual means. Resources such as building materials, fabric, leather, and food seemed to appear mysterious when it "died" in the Land of the Living. The working theory was that when something broke, burned, crumbled, unraveled, bent or cracked or spilled beyond any possible use, spoiled, rotted away, or otherwise was destroyed in some form, it sometimes arrived in the Land of the Dead. No one could predict what would appear or how it worked or what would count as the object's "death." It was yet another mystery that no one really understood. But it meant that they didn't completely rely on what was left on _ofrendas_ for all their resources.

So they weren't completely dependent on offerings for food. They had access to ingredients and such. But everyone always talked about how it wasn't the same. They always talked about how anything brought back as offerings were always somehow _more_.

The first cautious bite hit him hard, the shock of it overwhelming him to the point it felt like the air was driven from his nonexistent lungs. Still as soft and fresh as the day it was baked, the _pan de muerto_ was sweet and delicious. And intense. The flavor was stronger and fuller than anything that he'd tasted since he'd died. But it was more than just the taste. Every crumb seemed permeated with the feeling of love, family, memories, and comfort that was now flooding his body. It warmed his bones and left him shaking slightly in shock.

"Hey, you all right?" asked Oscar, staring at his face in concern. Héctor wasn't certain what expression he was wearing, but it was clearly enough to catch the twins' attention. "I know Elena makes pretty good _pan de muerto_ , but it can't be _that_ good."

Glancing at his brother, Felipe said, "Offerings are always better, remember? And…" He looked back towards the still-overwhelmed Héctor. "You've never had any offerings, have you? Am I right, Héctor?"

His voice shaking a little as he savored the flavor and warmth that it caused, he whispered, " _Sí_. I never got the chance. Not in the … _decades_ that I've been here."

Once again, the siblings exchanged looks. Héctor couldn't miss the hint of pity on both their faces. But most of his focus was on how good the offering tasted and made him feel. The warmth and feeling of loving memories sank into his bones, easing the aches a little for the moment. He couldn't believe that he spent ninety-six years without any offerings. It was so sweet and delicious and good. The sensation from a single bite was so intense and overwhelming. It would probably be easier to handle if it didn't take decades to taste an offering. Or if he'd bothered to try eating _anything_ in last several years.

"Well, you better be prepared for next year," said Oscar finally. "Miguel is undoubtedly going to pile a bunch of stuff on the _ofrenda_. Coco too."

"I still can't cross the bridge," Héctor reminded. "The _foto_ that I tried to give him is gone."

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Felipe said, "Then we'll bring back whatever they leave you. We know it's not the same, but…"

He smiled and quietly said, " _Gracias_. I… I appreciate that."

"Welcome back to the family," said Oscar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Brillante" means "brilliantly" or "with sparkle." It indicates that a section should be played in a showy and spirited style. It's a nice and happy type of sound, which is pretty nice while Héctor gets to spend time with our romantic Rosita and then later the twins.
> 
> Also, to the people who are already asking if something is wrong and what's taking so long, chill out! I am updating two "Coco" stories simultaneously. It takes time. And it really hasn't been that long. Please learn some patience.


	18. Con Calore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seems to approve of the idea of Héctor getting to enjoy nice, soft, and good things. Especially after all the poor guy has been through. So even if his relationship with Imelda is still a work-in-progress, let's continue the trend of having things improve for him.

Years of keeping secrets from his family caused Miguel to react without thinking when he heard a knock on his bedroom door, shoving the books beneath his pillow and pushing Dante under his bed out of sight. He could barely spare a moment to whisper to the dog to stay and desperately pray that Dante would remain hidden by the dangling blanket. But the time the door opened, the boy was standing in the middle of the room, clutching his wrist and grinning sheepishly.

"Nothing," he yelped defensively.

Giving him an unconvinced look, his mamá stepped into the room. She seemed to be carrying a thin book with a colorful cover and a flat square object. She hesitated a moment before sitting on the edge of his bed, Dante thankfully not creeping out from underneath. The springs creaked loudly and she sighed in relief at being off her feet. She'd been slowing down and sitting a lot more lately, too tired out by her pregnancy. His baby brother or sister should arrive soon.

"Hey there, Miguel," said Mamá, patting a spot next to her. "Can we talk a little?"

Nodding awkwardly, he sat down beside her. He felt Dante sniff at his ankle, but did his best not to react to the cold nose poking him. Miguel had no idea where this conversation might go. He'd been involved in a lot of intense discussions with his family lately. Between his cousins wanting help finding instruments, Abuelita apologizing for breaking his guitar, and the entire situation with the music ban lifting, Miguel never could seem to get a break. His mamá could have almost anything in mind.

"You remember the stories about how I met your papá and how your abuelita told us that if we wanted to be together, I would have to follow the same rules as the rest of this family," she said slowly.

"Of course," said Miguel. "You and Papá told me lots of times."

Smiling as her hand rested lightly on her stomach, she said, "So you remember that I didn't grow up with the music ban. I spent time in the plaza as a child. I wasn't particularly musical, but I would hum and sing along with songs that I knew. It was fun. I didn't have any particular interest or talent for music, but I liked hearing it. Giving it up wasn't easy. I used to be scolded about humming absent-mindly in the workshop."

She reached up and rubbed her hand through his hair. Miguel smiled slightly at her.

"But you're not like that. You love music. I've seen it in your eyes when you sing and play. I could tell that much even when you tried to follow the rules. Music isn't something you could ignore, _míjo_."

"And now I don't," said Miguel. "I don't have to ignore it or hide it anymore."

Though he was at least trying to hide the fact he snuck Dante into his room. He could hear him panting quietly beneath the bed. But it wasn't very loud, so his mamá would probably miss the sound.

Holding out the thin book and flat square object, she said, "And I want to show you that we want to support and help you. So after asking around, I found this for you."

Miguel looked down at them. A thin book and a CD in a case, both of which were titled "Guitars for Beginners," now rested in his hands. Even a month ago, Miguel wouldn't be allowed to own anything similar to these. Not without keeping them secret. But it still made him shake his head slightly.

" _Gracias_ , Mamá," he said carefully. "It was nice of you to get these for me. But I'm not a beginner. You've heard me play."

"Open it."

Following her instructions, Miguel opened the book at random. And then he froze. The pages were covered in lines that ran across them. And rather than normal words or sentences, strange symbols and dots lay scattered at random. Some of the black dots appeared to have sticks attached or even holding up flags or banners. That was the best description that Miguel could think of for what he was looking at. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the patterns or positions.

"This… This is music?" he whispered.

"I know you can play," said Mamá. "But this will teach you to read it as well. The beginning of the book explains what everything means and the CD matches the music written in the second half. That way you can hear what the section you are reading sounds like."

A bright grin slowly formed on Miguel's face as it sank in. He couldn't believe it. After years of seeking out ways to learn music, he finally had an easier way to learn new songs. Mimicking videos and learning to play by ear took time and effort to perfect. Being able to find new songs the same way that he found stories in a book would be so much easier.

And if he learned to read music, then someday he might be able to write songs. Like Papá Héctor.

" _Gracias_ , Mamá," he repeated, this time with far more enthusiasm. "This… This is wonderful."

"Whether you chose to make music or shoes, your family will help you be the best that you can be," said Mamá. "We want to support you, Miguel."

* * *

As Luisa stepped out of their son's room, Enrique asked from where he was waiting, "Did he like it?"

"He seemed to," she said. "He's still looking through it."

"Then it was worth the effort to find."

Her hand slipping into his, Enrique walked slowly to match her pace. Pregnancy had slowed her down a bit. The arrival of their newest child drew closer every day. They'd already brought back down the crib and other assorted necessities from where the family stored them after Benny and Manny outgrew them. Everyone was looking forward to what was coming. Luisa seemed to grow more beautiful and happy even as she was forced to work a lighter load, his wife eagerly anticipating the upcoming birth and the growth of their family.

"Yes," she said with a smile. "It was worth it."

The book and CD didn't make up for when Miguel's guitar, the one that he clearly made himself, was smashed in front of his son. Enrique wished that he could have stopped his mamá before that happened. But even if they couldn't reverse what happened, it would not happen again. And these small gifts would help assure their son that things had truly changed. He no longer had to keep secrets from his family out of fear.

"Though I do wonder how long he thinks he can hide that dog," Luisa continued. Giggling slightly, she said, "It was hard not to laugh when he started licking my ankle. I can't believe Miguel didn't notice, but he was too busy looking over the sheet music."

"I know we should say something. He really needs to stop keeping secrets," said Enrique, trying to look serious even as a grin tried to overtake his face.

"He'll tell us when he's ready. Or his dog gets loose," she said. "And you really can't complain too much about him wanting to hide his pet. Or did you forget about the time you tried to keep your mamá from noticing the entire litter of puppies you snuck into your room? And then three of them started chewing on the half-finished shoes in the workshop? Because I'm sure that if you've forgotten about that, she'll be happy to tell the story again."

Enrique could feel his face heating up even as he laughed at the memory.

"I was _eight_. And other than going after the shoes, they were great dogs. If she gave me more time, I'm sure I could have trained them. Or she could have at least let me keep one instead of giving them all away."

"Maybe she would have if they didn't shred one of _her_ shoes. Her favorites that were in her bedroom at the time. And if they didn't chase the chicken. And if they didn't trip Tía Victoria. And—"

"Okay, okay," Enrique interrupted, still laughing. "I admit it. All six of them were absolute troublemakers. At least Miguel's dog isn't as bad."

"So we agree. He can keep the dog."

"Yes."

"And we're not saying a word to him about us knowing that he has a dog, right?"

"Of course not. Berto bet that the secret will be out by the end of the week. We can't let him win that easily."

* * *

"If Dr. García gets angry about me walking around, I'm blaming both of you," said Héctor, his voice a little tight.

"Technically, he told you not to put any weight on your broken leg, right?" Oscar said, shifting his grip slightly on the arm slung across his shoulders. "And you're not. Felipe and I will make sure of that."

He wasn't putting weight on the old injury, but he wasn't lying in bed anymore either. With slow and careful movements from everyone involved, the pair managed to sit Héctor up with minimal jostling and pain. And once they let Héctor catch his breath, the twins slipped his arms across their shoulders and pulled him upright. With a brother on either side to support him, they slowly walked him across the wooden floor.

"Nice and easy," said Felipe. "We're in no hurry. We don't want you getting hurt on the way."

"I'm not even sure where we're going," Héctor mumbled when they paused briefly, letting him catch his breath from the exertion.

"Not far," assured Oscar. "But Rosita is doing laundry today and she'll want the bedding."

Felipe added, "It might also do you some good to get out of this room. Especially since you can stay awake for longer than half an hour at a time now."

Héctor could admit that the idea of not being completely confined to a bed was nice. He couldn't banish the stir-crazy feeling it caused. But even with the twins supporting him, walking the short distance to the hallway sapped much of his limited strength.

Not to mention that his joints still felt stiff and resistant to his attempts to move and the fading pain in his bones hadn't completely disappeared yet. Even if the effort wasn't exhausting, he knew he wouldn't be able to go very far without help.

"This way," Oscar said. "Just down the hall a little and then you can rest as long as you want."

"You'll like it. Imelda isn't always eager to replace old things with new. She doesn't see the point in upgrading something that's worked perfectly well in the past, though sometimes the latest family member to arrive can talk her into it. But she does make one big exception," said Felipe. "She keeps track of the improvements the younger people come up with and tends to save up for renovations every decade or so. So it's really nice."

Héctor didn't ask what they were talking about, too focused on keeping his movements slow and small to prevent it from hurting too much. Not to mention how tiring it was. But their words did send his thoughts in directions that he'd been avoiding.

Ever since he first woke up, he'd seen the various members of the household. Even when they didn't sit with him, Héctor caught glimpses during his waking hours. He'd seen Rosita and the twins mostly, but even Victoria would pause at the door and ask if he needed anything.

But not Imelda. After that visit with Dr. García shortly after he regained consciousness, Héctor had barely seen her. He heard her sometimes, her voice coming through the floorboards below. And he knew that she was busy, that he spent most of his time sleeping, and that he'd been confined to a single room. There were plenty of reasons why he might not have seen much of Imelda. But part of him, a part that he tried to silence and had been trying to silence for decades, wondered if she was avoiding him.

She spent so long trying to stay away from him. Héctor knew the feeling by now. Hearing her sing… Hearing her call him the love of her life… Feeling her hand in his… All those things gave him hope when he'd thought it to be extinguished years ago. But even as she allowed him under her roof, Imelda was avoiding him. She refused to look at him or speak to him. While many things had changed for the better, a few remained tragically familiar.

But as always, Héctor pushed that entire train of thought away. If Imelda needed space, then she could have it. He wouldn't try and push things. He couldn't follow her around, teasing out smiles and warmer moods with his music. Not that he could follow her around at all at the moment… Regardless, he wouldn't push her boundaries. He would keep his distance until she indicated otherwise.

"Almost there," said Oscar.

"Good," Héctor gasped, trying to catch his breath. "I need… a break."

Pushing open the door with his foot, Felipe said, "All right. Let's get you sat down then."

Héctor found himself staggering into a blue-and-white tiled bathroom. The beautiful tiles felt smooth and cool underfoot. There was a sink and mirror on one end of the room and a large tub rested at the other. Next to the tub was a chair, a small stack of towels and folded clothes resting on top. The twins helped him the rest of the way, letting him finally sit on the edge of the tub and rest.

"Our sister likes relaxing in a warm bath," Oscar said, letting Héctor's arms slide off. "Indoor plumbing, a very large water heater, and a nice bathroom on each floor is pretty much her one real splurge."

"And we thought you might like to relax in a warm bath while the bedding gets washed," said Felipe.

"Not to mention we left you some of our spare clothes to change into. It probably won't be a prefect fit, but closer than _Julio's_. That way we can add your pants to the laundry."

Héctor glanced down at the torn and fraying edges of his pant legs. He wasn't completely certain that they would survive many more washings without coming apart. Add in the fact that he still didn't know where his shirt ended up and Héctor was beginning to wonder if he would get to keep any of his clothes.

"Though I'm not certain if your splints can get wet," mumbled Felipe. "I guess we should have asked Dr. García about that."

Having finally caught his breath again, Héctor said, "There's an easy way around that."

Reaching down to his left leg, he pulled weakly. It seemed to require more effort than he was used to, but Héctor blamed his general weakness and exhaustion. The bones _popped_ apart at the knee. With his tibia still bound together, Héctor laid his detached limb on the cool tile. The broken rib wrapped in medical tape followed the same way. Keeping his arm out of the water would be simple enough, so he left it alone.

"I guess _that_ works," said Oscar, eyeing the removed the body parts uneasily. "You know most people don't do that much. Not that casually, at least. Most people find it—"

"—a little uncomfortable," Felipe finished.

Giving a small shrug, Héctor said, "It's not so bad when you get used to it."

Shaking his head slightly, Felipe reached over and turned one of the knobs. Warm water poured from the faucet. It was quite a step up from the days where the water needed to be drawn from the well, heated over a fire, and then poured in the tub. Imelda certainly fixed up a nice and modern bathroom.

Far too nice for anyone who dwelled in Shantytown.

"Need any more help?" Felipe asked uneasily, drawing Héctor's attention back to them. "I mean, there's nothing really to see and we _can_ help, but—"

"—it might be a little awkward, all things considered," finished Oscar. "Though dumping you into the tub with your pants on might be even _more_ awkward."

"I can manage this much," he assured, slowly shrugging off one suspender from his shoulder and then the other. "I'll just take my time. And _gracias_. Both of you."

"Try not to sleep in the tub too long," said Oscar with a grin. "And make sure you wash—"

"—that wild mop of hair," Felipe continued, the pair teasing him gently. "It is just like when you were courting our sister. Remember? Imelda said—"

"—that you could never keep your hair neat for more than an hour. Though—"

"—part of the reason for that might have been because she kept running her fingers through your hair."

Héctor smiled wistfully at the memories their words conjured. He could almost feel phantom fingers moving along his skull. He always loved the sensation when Imelda would drag her nails across his scalp lightly, usually right before pulling his face down for a kiss. It was a wonderful memory.

And whether or not Imelda truly wanted to try again, Héctor would still have those memories.

Turning off the water before it climbed too high, Felipe asked, "Are you sure that you'll be fine?"

"It's not like I can _drown_ ," said Héctor, shifting slightly on the edge of the bathtub. "And I'm doing better now. Not _great_ , but… I think I can manage at least to get in the tub on my own."

"Well, don't wear yourself out," Oscar said. "We'll be back later and help you get ready."

"You make it sound like I have something important coming up," said Héctor with a wry smile. "I am pretty sure that my schedule is empty. Unless you count sleeping all afternoon."

"You'll see," the pair said in unison, something they did rarely.

And with that ominous statement, the twins slipped out and closed the door behind them, leaving Héctor alone with the lightly-steaming tub of water. He waited a moment more, trying to puzzle out what they might have in mind. But even as he made the attempt to guess what Oscar and Felipe were up to, he knew that it was a pointless effort.

Hopefully it wouldn't end in disaster. He still remembered when they were thirteen and that _thing_ they made with the pulleys, wires, and the fireworks. Héctor wouldn't be surprised if the people of Santa Cecilia still told stories of that terrifying day.

Untying the rope that served as a belt was easy enough. The tight loop around his pelvis kept him from losing his pants even when he frequently fell apart, but the knot didn't require much effort or dexterity to undo. From there, the fabric practically fell to the floor. It crumbled on top of his detached leg and rib. Héctor left it there; folding them or even moving his pants somewhere else seemed like too much effort at the moment.

Slipping into the warm water, Héctor could barely resist the urge to sigh from the pleasant sensation. He didn't have muscles any longer, but he remembered the feeling of the soreness that a hard day's labor could induce. The farms around Santa Cecilia always needed an extra set of hands near the harvest and the money that a week or two of work brought in could help in the leaner times, so he had experience with the way it would leave his muscles sore and stiff for days afterwards. And he remembered how soaking in warm water could loosen those muscles and ease the worst of it. Though he also remembered small and strong hands massaging the knots in his shoulders and back as he sat in a chair, her arms eventually snaking around his neck in a hug and him leaning his head back until he could turn to face her…

But the warmth from the water seemed to ease the aches in his bones the same way that it once would have soothed sore muscles. It seemed to sink deep down, down to the very marrow.

Yes, he could certainly see why Imelda would choose to invest in both indoor plumbing and the nice bathtub. It felt _glorious_.

He was too tall to easily fit his whole body. Héctor was used to that. He let himself sink deeper into the water, leaving his remaining attached leg to dangle over the edge and his right arm over the side. With his new position, the water reached up to his clavicles, filling his chest cavity and lapping gently over his ribs. The exertion and soreness caused by his first trip out of bed seemed to melt away, leaving him pleasantly drowsy.

Héctor saw some bottles sitting next to the tub, filled with various types of goop intended for cleaning up. Far more than he saw in life and more specialized than what his family in Shantytown ever got their hands on, using the same cheap and harsh soap bars when they bothered to clean anything. But Héctor could read the descriptions on the bottles and figure out their specific purposes. There was a goop to clean hair and a different good to smooth and soften it, which explained why Imelda's hair somehow looked even more beautiful than he remembered in life. And there was a jar labeled "bone polish," a thicker and gritty cream meant to be used with a soft cloth. All the different jars and bottles would keep any skeleton looking their best.

But for now, he didn't reach for any of them. It seemed that Oscar was right about his prediction. Héctor felt too warm, comfortable, and drowsy to do anything. Not yet. He could wash properly in a few minutes. But first… maybe he could close his eyes… for a little while…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have a little screen time for Miguel's parents. They didn't get much time in the film, but they did seem like loving and good people. Not perfect or infallible, but none of the characters in "Coco" are. 
> 
> "Calore" means "warmth" or "con calore" means "warmly." If either phrase is written above part of the sheet music, it means that the music should be played with a warm quality to the sound.


	19. Grace Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the wait has been a bit longer lately. There are good reasons for that. One, I'm working on a second "Coco" story simultaneously. Two, I went on vacation for a little while and then I had to catch up on work afterwards. And three, real life just got busy. But this story isn't over yet and I will certainly be continuing. So sit back, relax, and enjoy.

"You've been avoiding him."

Imelda glanced up at Victoria's words. The pair had been setting the table for dinner while Rosita finished cooking. It had been a light day at the workshop, so the family had filled the time in with various household chores. And since it had been such a nice day, they decided to splurge on a slightly nicer meal.

At least, that was what Rosita declared as she cheerfully took over the kitchen and shooed everyone else out. Sometimes the sweet-natured woman got into a cooking mood and it was best to let her embrace her creative impulse.

The rest of the family would be joining them shortly. The smell of the delicious meal would announce dinner as clearly as any voice. But for now, it was only Imelda and her granddaughter standing around the table.

"Before," Victoria continued slowly, setting another plate down even as she refused to meet her abuelita's gaze, "you hardly left his side. You spent most of your time sitting at his bedside, waiting for him to wake up. But now… you haven't gone near the bedroom unless he was sleeping. You even took most of your clothes and set them in your study. I don't know how else to describe it, Mamá Imelda. You've been avoiding Héctor."

Imelda stared at her silently. Unlike so many people, Victoria was always one to speak her mind. She was not intimidated by Imelda. She rarely questioned or went against her, but it was always out of respect and belief in Imelda's decision. Not out of fear of sparking a sharper reaction. And Victoria was not one to dance around the subject. Out of anyone in the household, Victoria was the only one who would possibly broach the topic.

That didn't mean that Imelda would admit anything.

"I've been busy, _míja_. You know that. We just finished several important orders."

"You could have made time. But you didn't." Victoria paused, looking across the table at her. "I can only guess why you haven't. Either you want Héctor to leave and are just waiting until he's strong enough… or you're afraid to face him right now. And you are not afraid of much."

"I told you, Victoria," said Imelda firmly. "There's nothing wrong. I've merely been busy. I am not avoiding Héctor."

Imelda spotted a small smile tug at her granddaughter's mouth, one that faintly reminded her of her twin brothers. That expression on the stoic woman, no matter how subtle, set off alarms in Imelda's head. While her height made her slightly resembled Oscar and Felipe (or, though Imelda spent a long time denying it, Héctor), Victoria did not share many traits with the twins. It was rare to see that mischief mirrored in Victoria's eyes. That was always a sign of trouble.

"I'm glad to hear it, Mamá Imelda," she said. "We wouldn't want this to be awkward for anyone."

"You don't want to make _what_ awkward?" asked Imelda.

Victoria didn't say a word, simply setting down the final plate in her arms. Imelda paused, something niggling at the back of her mind. Something was off. She looked at the table again. A quick mental count revealed the issue.

"Is there a reason why we have an extra plate setting?" asked Imelda.

The floorboards creaked slightly as if in answer to her question. She spun around to find three tall figures easing into the room. Imelda stiffened in surprise. His arms draped across her brothers' shoulders to let them support his weight instead of his wobbly legs and his expression already tired from the journey down the stairs, Héctor was upright and in front of her. After weeks trapped in bed, he was out of the room.

"Look who is joining us for dinner," Oscar said.

Imelda would have demanded to know what was happening, what they thought they were doing dragging the man out of bed when he still spent the majority of his time sleeping. But her thoughts were almost violently derailed as she actually looked at Héctor.

His ragged and frayed clothes were gone for the moment. The white button-up shirt and pants were clearly borrowed from the twins, not quite fitting perfectly and yet looking better than his previous outfit. The long sleeves also hid the splint on his arm and the bindings around his broken rib from sight.

His scruffy and messy hair had been washed and combed. It wasn't neat; it had never been neat at any point in his existence. But it was as close as his hair would ever manage. It practically begged for someone to bury their hands in the softness.

And while his bones still retained enough of the yellow tint to make it clear that he was nearly forgotten, they had been cleaned and polished to a smooth state. His facial markings nearly gleamed, bright and vivid. It was impossible to ignore the way they attracted attention and flattered his features. All the minor scratches caused by his rough afterlife had been buffed to the point that his bones looked perfectly smooth. Imelda was hit by the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch the polished surface, her mind already conjuring ideas of her fingers trailing along his arms and beyond.

Héctor didn't look like a broken scarecrow. In many ways, he finally resembled the man that she married so long ago rather than a pale shadow of him. He looked put together, clean, and… handsome.

Imelda shoved that thought down, thankful that she was long past the point where she could blush. No matter how much she wanted to or how good he might look, she couldn't react like a lovesick teenager. She needed to be smart about this. Nothing about the situation had changed.

They couldn't go back to the way that they used to be. Trying would almost certainly hurt them both and Imelda refused to do that. And after everything that happened, he wouldn't stay. He couldn't stay only to be hurt when he realized that she was no longer the woman he remembered.

So it didn't matter how good Héctor looked, cleaned up and well-dressed as her brothers settled him into a chair. It didn't matter how she couldn't seem to drag her eyes away from him or how it felt like a phantom heartbeat was racing in her ribcage. It didn't matter that the shy and uncertain nod of greeting seemed wrong and part of her wanted to reach out to him.

She had to remain firm. She needed to keep her distance. It would make things easier. It would hurt less this way. She just needed to do the smart thing. Though that would be trickier when her family seemed to be conspiring against her.

Imelda narrowed her eyes as she looked around the room. Obviously her brothers and Victoria were involved. And when Rosita came in with plates of lightly-steaming food and appeared unsurprised by the tired skeleton at the table, merely piling extra portions in front of him, Imelda knew that she was involved as well. Which wasn't that unexpected. For someone with no interest in finding a man of her own, Rosita spent a surprising time getting invested in other people's relationships. So far it seemed that the only one not playing matchmaker, or whatever crazy idea was rattling around their empty skulls, was Julio. At least someone in the household had some sense.

It was official. Julio was now her favorite member of the family.

Still, it could be worse. At least the family weren't pushing _too_ hard. They weren't trying to leave the pair alone together. It was a family meal, not a private date. The seat that they picked out for Héctor was positioned perfectly. Imelda's place was neither right beside him nor directly across from him. She could handle this. The extra distance would make it easier to avoid staring at the version of her husband who was actually dressed, healthier, and didn't look like a _vagabundo_.

Or, Imelda reluctantly admitted to herself as her eyes kept flickering to his bright facial markings and the clothes that clung to his smooth and polished bones in a way that was completely different than they fit on Oscar or Felipe, she could at least keep her staring _subtle_.

He never matched the broad-shouldered, neat hair, and squared jaw that served as an example of _machismo_ and the ideal male appearance, even in life. That was always Ernesto's strength. But she didn't fall for Ernesto. The tall, lanky, sweet, funny, and kind young man with the friendly and warm smile was the one that she found far more handsome and appealing. She missed the imperfections that had vanished upon death, the ears and nose that he'd jokingly remarked that Coco had escaped sharing. Imelda always thought they were part of his charm though. Héctor still had the same warm eyes and the same soft and tempting hair though. And the vibrant colors splashed across his face only made him more handsome.

It wasn't fair. She knew it was because Héctor was murdered young while she continued to age, but it wasn't fair how much he still resembled the young man that she fell in love with. It wasn't fair that he looked that handsome and was stirring up memories of him smiling at her as he followed her into their bedroom. He'd been gone a long time. She'd been _alone_ for a long time; she had her family, but not an equal partner and husband to be with her over the decades of her life and afterlife. Not after he left. It wasn't fair that he looked so good, so familiar, and so… distracting.

" _Hola_ ," greeted Julio as he entered the room. "Dinner smells delicious, Rosita."

The fact that her son-in-law didn't blink at Héctor's presence, but gave Imelda a brief look of guilt… That told her that she was wrong before. The entire household was in on the plan. Literally everyone knew about Héctor coming down for dinner except her and they helped arrange it.

Traitors.

But at least Héctor didn't seem eager to take advantage of the situation. The charming _músico_ who never missed the chance to win her approval in their younger days seemed to be missing as everyone settled in and began the meal. Maybe it was the general tiredness, but Héctor seemed mostly content to listen to the conversation. He ate the food on his plate, keeping his movements careful and slow even as he clearly enjoyed it. And whenever her brothers or Rosita tried coaxing a remark from him, Héctor seemed hesitant. As if he wasn't certain how they would react to what he might say and needed to keep an eye on his words.

There was no denying the awkwardness around the table. And it wasn't just him, the foreign timidness and hesitancy keeping him quieter than she remembered Héctor being. The conversation lacked the normal ebb and flow. It was stilted and trailed off occasionally. Imelda needed a moment to realize what was wrong.

Everyone was struggling for safe conversation topics. Perhaps they could broach more sensitive discussions alone, but the family was gathered together and everyone could hear. But what were they supposed to say?

The decades that they spent apart, the music ban, and the banishment of even his name from the household was not something appropriate for a light-hearted family meal. Comments about the latest news would inevitably lead to Ernesto de la Cruz. Any remarks about friends would be met with confusion; Héctor didn't know their neighbors and the family didn't know any of the people that he'd spent his afterlife among. It would only serve to highlight their long separation. They would have the same problem if they talked about their living relatives, people that Héctor was denied the chance to ever know.

There was no safe topic that didn't remind everyone of how long he'd been gone from their family. And thus… they were stuck with the most awkward family dinner possible. Which was only more awkward because Imelda was doing her best not to stare at his vibrant facial markings, polished bones, and soft hair.

Sensing the uncomfortable atmosphere and apparently deciding to do something about it, Oscar said, "You know, we shouldn't have been surprised that Miguel, of all people, would manage to curse himself."

"He always seemed to find trouble," continued Felipe, clearly following his train of thought. "Remember that year that everyone spent half the night talking about how the toddler wandered off and they took forever to find him?"

Smiling at the memory, Julio said, "Knowing what we do now, they should have checked the plaza immediately."

Imelda watched various family members begin to relax, their posture easing. Her brothers managed to find something that everyone could talk about and enjoy. Miguel was a safe topic. Relatively speaking. She could feel herself relaxing as well. Maybe this dinner wouldn't be too bad.

"Apparently he's pulled to music just as much as he is trouble," said Oscar. "Kind of like you, Héctor. Remember that time you tried to 'serenade' our sister outside her window that night?"

Never mind. She was going to strangle her siblings. They were still plotting. Because while Héctor had played for her countless times over the years, she knew _exactly_ which time they were referencing. And it wasn't going to work. Not even slightly. She _refused_ to react, no matter how many curious looks they were getting from the younger generations.

And she wasn't the only one who remembered what Oscar was talking about. Despite his tiredness, his previous nervousness, and everything else, Héctor couldn't seem to resist the urge to chuckle. It was quiet and restrained, just like all his movements so far, but he was certainly laughing at the memory.

She couldn't blame him. Imelda was barely fighting back a smile herself. She remembered that night quite vividly.

"Of course, it _might_ have gone better if his first attempt didn't involve playing outside _our_ window," Felipe continued casually. "The song was lovely, but a couple of young boys who should have been asleep _probably_ wasn't the audience that he had in mind."

Holding up a finger, Héctor said, "In my defense, it was dark. And all those windows looked alike."

"We know. That's why we poked our heads out and told you where to find the right one," said Oscar. "And you _still_ couldn't find her window on your second try."

Héctor slowly dropped his head on the table, making a sound somewhere between a groan and laughter. A few chuckles came from the rest of the family. Rosita tried to stifle them slightly, her hand covering her mouth. Julio pulled his hat down to hide his amused expression. Even Victoria raised an eyebrow at the antics. The twins didn't even try to muffle their laughter.

She did have to give her brothers credit though. The awkwardness was melting away.

"The second window, second floor, on the east side of the building. How hard is that to remember?" Felipe asked between chuckles.

"It was dark. I got turned around," said Héctor, his voice muffled by the table and his shoulders shaking slightly.

"So turned around that you managed to give your heartfelt performance to my parents instead?" Imelda asked, unable to suppress a smile any longer.

That startled full-blown laughter from most of the family. It was just too much to resist. Even Imelda chuckled at the memory of that distant night. Héctor raised his head, his eyes bright and his expression more relaxed.

More like she remembered.

"I don't think they appreciated the song," said Héctor.

"And what gave you that idea?" Imelda asked. "The late hour? The fact you woke up the entire household from a sound sleep?"

Ducking his head even as he grinned and peered up at her, he said, "It was more the way that your papá ran out, threatening to make a belt out of my hide and feed the rest of me to the coyotes."

Everyone around the table either laughed, snorted, or grimaced in sympathy at his words. Julio buried his face in his hands while Oscar and Felipe nearly fell out of their chairs. Héctor seemed to brighten in response, some of his tiredness pushed aside.

"I had to run for my life, scrambling back over the wall and fleeing into the night before he could wrap his hands around my neck," continued Héctor. "I nearly lost my guitar in the process." He shook his head slowly. "All that effort and not a hint of appreciation."

"I shouted for you to _run_ ," she reminded. "Helping you keep your head attached was my way of showing you appreciation. As was me not smacking you for being an _idiota_."

Héctor laughed quietly and even Imelda chuckled slightly, something that startled her almost as much as it did the rest of her family. The memory of that amusing night, being surrounded by those that she cared about, and seeing Héctor look that handsome all conspired together to remind her of those simpler days of her youth. For a moment, Imelda felt light-hearted, young, happy, and in love. Part of her wanted to get up from the table and move to his side, laughing over past misadventures and basking in the warmth of each other. She could almost see how he used to look during life as she stared at his smile, her mind restoring his skin to his features. She wanted to be a young woman, completely in love with the _músico_ who drove her _un poco loco_. The impulse gripped her tight, all the way down to her marrow.

But she resisted, staying in her seat and quieting her chuckles. She wasn't a young woman, impulsive and burning with passion. Not anymore. Imelda was an old woman, one who gained wisdom with age, who was practical, who was sensible, who was responsible, and who couldn't go back to who she used to be. As wonderful as it was to remember those days and how happy those memories felt, she knew better. Imelda wasn't that person any longer. And no matter how his handsome face and smile seemed to reflect those days, Héctor wasn't the same young man who walked out the door.

She couldn't go back to how things used to be. They couldn't go back. It would only cause them both pain. She needed to remain strong and keep her distance. It would be better for everyone. Trying to recapture those happy memories and relive them anew would only lead to failure and heartbreak.

But, watching his laughter slow and grow quiet, Imelda _desperately_ wished that she could. Staring at her husband, both far too young and greatly aged by his rough afterlife, she couldn't help loving Héctor and wanting to rekindle their relationship. She wanted what they used to have.

It didn't matter what she wanted, though. This was what was best for everyone. Including Héctor.

So Imelda settled back in her chair and just listened to her family. The conversation continued, ebbing and flowing as different members shared various stories. Light-hearted and amusing things, carefully chosen not to lead to more uncomfortable topics. She watched for a while, her gaze always returning to Héctor eventually.

As the meal began to wind down, she wasn't surprised when his eyes grew heavy and his words slowed. He took fewer and fewer bites of the food that Rosita kept piling on his plate. And none of them were surprised when he managed to doze off in his chair.

"I guess that we wore him out," said Oscar.

"Though it really wasn't that hard," Felipe added. "He's doing better, but he still needs his rest."

Nodding slowly as she stood up from the table, Imelda said quietly, "Make sure he makes it back up to bed all right."

"Of course," said Oscar.

Mirroring each other's movements, the twins took up position on either side of Héctor. They nudged him enough to produce a quiet groan of protest and Héctor let them pull him groggily upright. His eyes still closed, the pair pulled him along as his bare feet nearly dragged across the floor. His movements reminded her of a sleepwalker, which didn't seem to be far from the truth.

"This way, Héctor," Felipe murmured. "Back to bed."

"Not a bad birthday, right?" said Oscar just as quietly. "We'll start working on something to get you more mobile tomorrow."

* * *

After everything that happened yesterday, Héctor ended up sleeping deeply. He wasn't even certain how long it took for him to wake up. His strength was taking a frustratingly long time to return from his brush with the Final Death and he'd ended up pushing himself too far. Wandering the house with the twins, the warm bath, and the family dinner burned through his minimal endurance.

But as exhausting and overwhelming as it was, Héctor enjoyed the entire evening. At least as much as he remembered before dozing off.

Prying open his eyes blearily, he noticed the morning light streaming in. That meant that he must have slept through the night. No one else was in the room, which wasn't too surprising. They were probably working. They couldn't stay with him all the time. Especially when he slept so much.

As he considered the idea of resting a little longer, his eyes drifted towards the chair. He expected it to be empty. But it wasn't and that caught his attention.

Slowly and carefully, Héctor sat up in bed. Then he reached over and pulled the clean pile of clothes, his hat, and the folded piece of paper onto his lap. Curious, he unfolded the note and began to read.

**-** _**Héctor,** _

_**I was not certain if you have a particular fondness for them, but I mended your clothes as well as I could. I could not do much for your hat, but sewing is within my abilities and the rest should be good condition now. But if you prefer, we could always find you some new clothes instead.** _

It was unsigned, but Héctor knew it wasn't Imelda's work. Even after so long, he would know his wife's handwriting. The neat, practical, and simple letters might have a similar style, but they were different enough that he was certain that she didn't write the note.

But someone wrote it. Someone in the family wrote the note and apparently mended his clothes. Héctor unfolded them, noticing the tiny and neat stitches and the new fabric patching the damaged sections. It wasn't exactly Ceci's work, which was understandable since that woman was an artist when it came to a needle and thread. But someone took the time to clean and repair his unraveling old clothes, finding cloth that closely matched and making those fraying rags look decent again. Someone took the time… for _him_.

Héctor smiled, his thumb tracing along the stitches on the new section of pant leg. Whoever was responsible did a great job. It was also a kind and welcoming gesture, one that they didn't have to do. One that warmed him nearly as much as the bath, the _pan de muertos_ , the family dinner, and a dozen other small moments that he'd experienced since waking up in Imelda's home.

Why would he want any other clothes than the ones mended by his family, a family that he could finally be a part of again?

_He didn't deserve this. He left. He left his wife and child alone. He hurt them. He didn't deserve all of this. It was too good. It was too perfect. He was going to ruin it. He was going to do something and they would hate him again._

He shoved those thoughts away. He needed to be positive.

He glanced down at the ill-fitting pajamas that the twins must have wrestled him into the night before, though he'd been too groggy to really notice at the time. If he had to guess, Héctor figured they belonged to Oscar. He thought he saw a tiny "O" stitched into the cuff of the sleeve, barely noticeable.

He should give them back. Once he stopped feeling completely run down all the time, he would change into his own clothes and return the pajamas.

It would be nice to wear his own clothes again. It would feel like progress. After everything, progress was nice.

His recovery was progressing even when his situation with Imelda remained ambiguous. For a moment, when they were both laughing over the past, he felt that same flicker of hope that he did when Imelda called him the love of her life. When she sang on stage. When she threw herself into his arms. Héctor felt that hope. But then the distance opened up between them once again, a gapping maw that was as uncrossable as the marigold bridge.

Maybe he pushed too hard. Héctor didn't know how though. He didn't know what he said or did that would count as too much. But maybe he pushed too much and made things worse. Maybe he crushed even that small chance.

But Héctor hadn't given up completely. Not yet. Imelda's fiery determination might be impressive, but he could be stubborn too.

And even if that tiny chance remained out of reach, Héctor would be fine. Imelda didn't hate him. He was getting to know his family. He was no longer being forgotten.

No matter how limited it might be, how conditional it could turn out to be, or how it might end up in the end, Héctor felt _wanted_. He would accept even the smallest fragments of affection and belonging. Even if it might be snatched away again without warning, he would enjoy it while he could. And whatever Imelda wanted or asked of him, Héctor would accept it.

It was more than he could have hoped for. It was more than he deserved. After decades, his family wanted him at least a little. His carefully-mended clothes were solid and tangible proof of that. He wouldn't ask for anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "grace note" is an extra note added as an embellishment and not essential to the harmony or melody. It is something that adds a little style and makes the song seem more impressive. It is essentially a decorative touch to a section of music. Like the song is already amazing and wonderful, but adding some grace notes to the section just accentuates that fact.
> 
> You know, like how cleaning up a skeleton and putting him in some different clothes accentuates the fact that Imelda still thinks her husband is attractive.


	20. Pizzicato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for another update. I hope that everyone is excited to see what happens next. Someone is going to be thinking about relationships. And there's a conversation about love.
> 
> Too bad that it isn't Héctor and Imelda having that conversation…

The first fifteen minutes of Dr. García's usual checkup visit wasn't actually spent upstairs with his patient. Instead, he was nearly overwhelmed by Oscar and Felipe's waterfall of words. The pair alternated between frantic apologies for dragging Héctor out of bed and wearing him out, assuring the doctor that it was completely their fault and that they did their best to keep him from putting any weight on his old injuries, and… explaining their various ideas of how to get Héctor mobile again.

The inventions that they described, mostly shoe-based, sounded interesting and might help him move around… theoretically. But most would either have various practical problems when it came to operating them or would run the risk of further injury. Or both. The pair were innovative, inventive, and enthusiastic, but that didn't always translate into "safe."

When one of the twins remarked that Imelda already rejected several of the more "creative" options, Dr. García wondered what had been worse than the knee-high roller skates that they showed him sketches of.

Finally, once Dr. García explained that a cane or a pair of crutches would be the best option and only when Héctor was supervised until he recovered more, the doctor could finally make it up to the bedroom.

Unsurprisingly, his patient was in bed. He wasn't asleep though. He was lazily scratching at his leg under the blanket, staring at a picture frame that someone had brought over at some point. He'd been changed into some different clothes, though the fit suggested they were borrowed from someone else rather than belonging to him. He did look cleaner and less battered now. Just tired. His trip around the rest of the house would have exhausted him, but Héctor seemed to have survived that adventure. And he was a far cry from how he looked during his first visit.

" _Hola_ , Héctor," greeted Dr. García, catching his patient's attention. "How are you feeling today?"

"Tired," he said, closing his eyes briefly as he set the picture frame down on the quilt. "I'm always tired though."

"I know it can be frustrating, but you need to be patient with yourself," said the doctor as he set his bag down. "Your strength may be coming back slowly, but it _is_ returning. You're just not giving yourself credit for the vast improvements you've made. You're staying awake longer. You were able to leave the bed, even if you needed help. Your color has improved."

"I managed to wash and that seemed to help," Héctor said.

"Bone polish isn't completely responsible. It can't work miracles, no matter what the advertisements promise." Taking his patient's arm and looking over the splint, Dr. García continued, "You still feel stiffer than you're used to?"

" _Sí_. All my joints… All my bones… When I try to move, they resist it," he admitted. "It's frustrating. Especially when moving doesn't hurt as much now."

"That's good."

"… _Qué_?"

"The memories holding you together? They are growing stronger as you are remembered more. That 'stiffness' is due to the fact that your bones are holding together better."

Héctor blinked in surprise before looking down at his hand. He flexed his fingers, staring at the movement thoughtfully. He truly hadn't realized what it meant.

"And the pain? You said that has improved?"

Distractedly scratching at his wrapped rib, Héctor said, " _Sí_. There are still aches, but it's not too bad if I'm careful. Slow and careful. I've dealt with worse."

Considering how many broken bones that he bore, not to mention how long that he'd been walking around on a broken leg, Dr. García wasn't surprised. The man seemed to have a relatively-high pain tolerance. Either naturally or through necessity.

"Good. Just don't push yourself," said the doctor. Gesturing towards the wrapped injuries, he asked, "Are you itching too much? I noticed you scratching at them."

Héctor glanced down at his wrapped rib, a look of surprise flashing across his face. The man looked between the medical tape and his hand with far too much confusion over his actions. He didn't seem to have noticed that he was scratching in the first place.

"Uh… Maybe a little?" he said.

"Just your rib or your arm and leg as well?"

"My leg is bothering me a little. But my arm is fine."

Dr. García nodded thoughtfully, reaching over and feeling the rib through the medical tape. The broken arm was apparently the oldest of the three injuries. It would be too much to expect much improvement after fifteen years. But if the rib and the broken tibia were starting to itch, it could be a sign that they were trying to heal. As long as Héctor didn't mess with the old fractures, the memories from his living family could coax the bones to gradually knit back together. There was an actual chance.

"Be careful if you scratch at them," advised Dr. García. "The splint on your leg should hold up, but the medical tape around your rib could shift if you treat it roughly."

Nodding slowly, Héctor said, "I'll keep that in mind."

"If you keep weight off your leg and show a little common sense, then you can try getting out of bed again if you have the energy," said Dr. García. "I would still advise caution about your limits until your recovery is further along, but you might feel better if you aren't cooped up the entire time."

Smiling wryly, Héctor said, "Many people over the years have commented on my 'little common sense,' but _gracias_."

* * *

The more times that Victoria wandered down to the lower levels of the city, the more absurd her original unease seemed in hindsight. Yes, Shantytown was dark, damp, and composed of the rejected remnants of society, both with the materials and the population. And yes, it made it hard to ignore how everyone would eventually be forgotten.

But even with the sad undertone, it wasn't a place of sorrow or fear. There were too many friendly smiles, welcoming shouts, laughter, and affectionate teasing for that. Scattered fires and occasional strings of light brightened some of the corners, especially later in the day. And music… Music always seemed to drift on the breeze and Victoria no longer instinctively pulled away from it.

There were good people and she had nothing to fear. Not even when she decided to come down alone with a few boxes; Rosita had gone with Julio to visit their parents and other relatives.

"Prima Victoria!"

" _Hola_ , Prima Victoria. Back already?"

"Didn't expect to see you so soon, Prima Victoria."

"Welcome back, Prima Victoria."

Victoria nodded politely at the greetings. But she couldn't seem to focus on the words. There was something missing and it was nagging at her. The woman found herself moving along the plank walkways in a distracted state. She barely noticed the occasional bemused glances from those around her. She was too busy trying to figure out what was wrong.

It hit her abruptly, almost making her stumble into the water from surprise. No violin. Out of all the different instruments and voices producing music along the waterline, she didn't hear the familiar makeshift violin.

"You're here earlier than we expected, Prima Victoria," said Juan as he approached. "And only a few boxes? I'm beginning to think this is more of a social visit." Taking the boxes from her and handing them over to some of the other skeletons to distribute to their new owners, he added, "You know you're always welcome."

"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate it."

"Things tense at home?" asked Juan, settling down on an old crate and indicating a barrel next to him.

Taking the offered seat, Victoria said, "Not precisely 'tense,' but it is frustrating."

"Cousin Héctor not what you were expecting?"

"No, he's not. He's… friendly, cares about his family, and seems to have a nice sense of humor. He's not anything like what I grew up believing," she said quietly. "But that isn't it. Mamá Imelda clearly still cares about him."

Laughing proudly, Juan said, "Good for him. Maybe it'll work out for him this time. It's hard enough finding love sometimes and holding onto it even harder. He deserves a second chance."

"But that's the problem. Everyone can see it, but she and Héctor seem reluctant to broach the subject."

That was a bit of an understatement, to be honest. The entire family could see that the old sparks of the relationship remained. Victoria and the others had compared interactions with the two of them since _Día de Muertos_ and it was enough to realize it. That was the entire reason that they arranged the family dinner in the first place, especially after the twins remembered when Héctor's birthday fell. They thought it would be easier for the pair to be in a more casual group setting rather than attempting to force them into something that more strongly resembled a date.

Rosita's occasional comments that a surefire strategy from her romance books would be to trap the pair in a closet together… were less than helpful.

Regardless, it didn't work. With the exception of that brief moment when Mamá Imelda and Héctor were laughing together over past events, they barely spoke to each other. But that didn't mean they ignored one another. Mamá Imelda couldn't keep her eyes off her husband for long and Héctor gave her quite a few adoring glances. Everyone around the table noticed it. Their behavior was impossible to miss or ignore. Except apparently the long-estranged couple didn't notice the obvious.

"Give them some time. From what I've heard and guessed over the years, they have reasons to be cautious," said Juan. "Once bitten, twice shy. And putting your heart on the line is never easy. Even if none of us _have_ hearts anymore…"

"Quite a lot of insight when it comes to love. And you claimed that you had no interest in chasing _señoritas_ ," Victoria said dryly.

Giving her a small smile, Juan said, "Just because I'm not looking for a _señorita_ doesn't mean I don't know anything about love. And speak of that…"

He reached under his ragged shirt. Victoria didn't know what she expected, but she caught a glimpse of a bright color as he pulled something out.

"Tío Carlos told me to give this to you should you show up someday while he wasn't here,' said Juan. "He didn't want it to get damaged, so he left it down here. He probably would have preferred to give it to you himself, but no one expected you today. And he's up to something at the moment."

The name made Victoria smile involuntarily. She barely realized that she did. He left something for her? That was… sweet. She quietly accepted the offered gift.

A small flower, one constructed of tissue paper and a bit of wire, rested innocently in her hand. The delicate object was the same shade of blue as her favorite blouse. It wasn't an expensive trinket. It was something that Carlos could and probably did make himself. But the effort that he put into making it and the fact he chose that particular color warmed something deep inside her.

He hadn't made her a pair of shoes like how Elena did for Franco. It wasn't like that. But somehow… it still meant something.

Twisting the small paper flower between her fingers, Victoria said calmly, "That was nice of him. I'm sorry that I missed him. Will you tell Carlos 'thank you' when he returns?"

"Of course,' said Juan with a knowing grin. "Between the flower and his violin, he seems to have a knack for making things out of scraps. I think he used some old _papel picado_."

"It's nice," she said.

It _was_ pretty. And rather thoughtful. She couldn't remember the last time someone outside her family gave her anything as a gift to show their affection. The fact that he chose a color that she liked so much made it seem sweeter. He had taken an interest in her preferences by paying attention to what she wore. He paid attention to her.

To be honest, Victoria didn't have much experience with these types of situations. Her family's reputation, and Mamá Imelda's fierce and protective reputation specifically, ensured that her possible suitors were limited. And the few who braved such a challenge were never people who appealed to Victoria. They never seemed to fit her the same way that Franco fit with Elena.

Did Carlos though? Did he appeal to her more as a friendly face to visit? A poor _músico_ from Shantytown, most likely to be completely forgotten within a generation? That was the real question. Because if she wasn't interested in anything more than what they had already established, then she should discourage him sooner rather than later. It wouldn't be fair to lead the man on. It would be cruel and Victoria refused to be cruel.

While being a _músico_ would have once guaranteed that he wouldn't be accepted, Mamá Imelda had welcomed Héctor back into their home and family. And he was a _músico_ and he'd spent decades in Shantytown. Thus, neither fact should count against Carlos. All that would matter would be if she and her family liked the man himself and if she wanted to risk a relationship that she knew came with a built-in time limit.

Common sense told her that it wasn't the wisest idea and that she should tell Carlos to stop. The blue paper flower in her hand… It made her consider the possibility.

"He really does seem to like you, Prima Victoria," said Juan cautiously.

Looking up from her new trinket, she said quietly, " _Sí_. I've noticed."

"And you still don't mind the attention?" continued Juan, pushing a little more.

"He's a good man," she said evenly. "I enjoy his company when I come to visit. Just as I like seeing the rest of you when I come down here."

The way that he smiled and chuckled at her words suggested that Juan didn't completely believe her neutral tone. It almost reminded her of talking to Rosita. It was ridiculous. Everyone wanted to act like a bunch of matchmakers all the time. Why couldn't they leave Victoria alone and just focus on Mamá Imelda and her complicated relationship with Héctor.

"Juan!"

They both turned to look, the cheerful voice catching their attention. Dressed in gray clothes that might have once been blue before they faded, he slid in next to them. It took a moment for Victoria to place the graying hair and the yellow lines around his eye sockets. There were so many people in Shantytown... But she recognized him with a little thought. Especially when her eyes flickered down briefly to his new and sturdy shoes.

Smiling warmly at him, Juan greeted, "Jorge. You made it back early."

"What can I say? I missed you," he replied, reaching down and taking his hand.

Letting Jorge pull him to his feet, Juan glanced back towards Victoria and said, "Make sure you visit Tía Gabriela while you're here. And think about what we were discussing. Don't let something good slip through your fingers. I don't know what you feel or don't feel. I just know that real love is hard to find both in life and death. You never know how long you have. If you find it, don't let it pass you by."

Their fingers intertwined, Juan and Jorge walked off along the plank pathways and left Victoria with her thoughts.

* * *

Elena stepped outside briefly to check on her mamá. They'd parked her wheelchair near the old covered well that morning while Benny and Manny played. But as time passed, they needed to make sure to move her into the shade. Too much direct sunlight pounding on her head wouldn't be healthy for a woman her age.

Mamá was where Elena positioned her earlier, dozing lightly with her feet resting on the xoloitzcuintle dog curled up in front of her. The stray briefly opened his eye and wagged his tail, but apparently felt too comfortable and lazy to move from his spot. He seemed perfectly happy to serve as an old woman's footrest and warm her feet with his body heat.

"You're making it very hard to pretend that I don't know you're hanging around," Elena said, glaring down at the dog.

The hairless thing only wagged his tail harder at her words, tongue lolling out of his mouth. The stray was a homely thing. Elena honestly couldn't see what made her grandson so attached to the dog. Especially when she warned Miguel against naming a stray.

But then, her grandson had never been good at doing as he was told.

"Mamá," she called gently.

"Hmm… Who…?" said Mamá, blinking awake. After staring blearily a moment, she smiled and said, "Elena. I must have drifted off."

Even now, she wasn't used to her mamá's improved memory. There were moments where she got lost in the past, needing to be coaxed back to the present. But they were fewer and farther between than they once were. She seemed more aware and happier. And for that, Elena would be eternally grateful.

"It's all right, Mamá," Elena said. "I just thought you might like to move to the shade."

Nodding slowly with drowsy contentment, Mamá said, "That would be nice. _Gracias_."

The dog didn't even bother to try moving out of the way until the wheelchair nearly ran him over. And even then, he barely scrambled to the side before trying to follow. How in the world did they see more of that stray while Miguel was at school than when he was at home? He kept trying to curl up next to Coco during the day. The fact that the old woman didn't seem to mind his presence was the only reason that Elena hadn't tried harder to chase him off.

That and she wasn't ready to risk hurting Miguel again so soon.

Settling her mamá in her new position, Elena had to admit that the boy was the most complicated of all her grandchildren. He pulled music back into the family, introducing it to the cousins. He fought back decades of tradition to show the good of music, letting it heal and comfort Coco. Miguel constantly asked and discussed the long-lost musician, forcing the family to think about Héctor. Forcing _Elena_ to think about him. And he brought that guitar into the house.

Elena might have spent her entire life avoiding music and everything to do with it, but she had a good eye for detail and a good memory. The beautiful white instrument certainly matched the family _foto_. And Mamá confirmed that it belonged to her papá. So Elena knew it was Héctor's instrument. But she remembered the records that Miguel showed them that evening, the picture of another man on the cover holding the guitar. And now that she no longer felt obligated to avoid Mariachi Plaza, though she rarely sought the place out, Elena saw the statue with her own eyes and didn't immediately look away with a sniff of displeasure.

She wasn't a fool. She could connect the dots. Mamá mentioned a "Tío Ernesto" during her stories. The celebrity musician, the one that all of Santa Cecilia adored, would have lived in the town at the same time as Mamá Imelda's husband. Señor Ernesto de la Cruz played Héctor's guitar at some point after the letters ended. The same guitar that vanished from the man's crypt the same night that Miguel managed to get his hands on it.

No one in the family, with the occasional exception of Rosa, wanted to admit it. But they knew. Miguel took the guitar from the crypt. It was why they stopped asking him where he vanished that night; they didn't want to lose plausible deniability. But what they didn't know is how Héctor's guitar ended up in Señor de la Cruz's possession in the first place.

Perhaps Mamá Imelda sold it to him after Héctor disappeared. That made the most sense. She sold most of his belongings in the early years. Elena remembered that part of the story, that she sold what she could and threw out what she couldn't. It was a tidy explanation that cleared up the issue.

Except Héc— _Papá Héctor_ would need his guitar if he planned to play for the world, so he wouldn't have left it at home to be sold.

And Luisa, Carmen, and Franco didn't grow up under the music ban. They remembered the songs they grew up with.

When Miguel wasn't around to eavesdrop, all the adults found themselves visiting the various issues dragged up that night. One of those topics was the song that Miguel sang and that Mamá claimed her papá wrote specifically for her. The lyrics appeared in the letters, as if Papá Héctor wanted to quote the song to his daughter. A song that those who married into the Rivera family recognized as the most iconic work of Señor de la Cruz. A song that wouldn't become famous until after Papá Héctor vanished.

How did the man get his hands on Papá Héctor's song as well as his guitar? Señor de la Cruz apparently claimed to write his own music. No one ever spoke of a partner or someone else helping him with the songs. Every adult member couldn't help discussing the question.

Maybe Elena was cynical or maybe Miguel's firmly asking _why_ Papá Héctor never came home when he clearly loved his family, but she couldn't think of a good reason for Señor de la Cruz to end up with those things. It raised too many suspicions. A lifetime of hating musicians might be to blame, but Elena didn't trust the celebrity. His statue looked too smug.

They couldn't prove anything. She didn't even know for certain what she suspected. But everyone was in agreement not to speak a word of this to Miguel. Based on his now-destroyed secret stash, the boy idolized Señor Ernesto de la Cruz. It would crush him to find out that his hero could be involved in something shady.

Elena shrugged those thoughts for the moment, watching the stray dog curling back up under Mamá's feet like before. She should probably get her mamá something to drink before returning to the workshop. And after that, she would need to work their plans about gifts for their upcoming holiday. With all the older grandchildren expressing interest in music, most of the family thought musical instruments might be a nice gesture.

Especially after what happened to Miguel's first guitar. A new guitar, a new one for casual playing and less attention-grabbing than the white one, would feel like an apology for harsh mistakes.

Unfortunately, Elena didn't know anything about picking out a decent instrument. Neither did most of the family. That presented a challenge for them if they wanted to go through with their gift idea. She needed an expert.

Maybe she could track down that mariachi from the plaza. The one who tried talking to Miguel on _Día de Muertos_. He probably knew where to get musical instruments without being swindled. And Elena was quite certain the man would help if she asked nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps not my longest chapter, but this story is now the longest "Coco" fanfiction story on the site and it was enjoyable to write. And hopefully the rest of you enjoyed it as well and that the rest of the story makes you happy. 
> 
> In music, "pizzicato" means "pinched" or "plucked" and is used with string instruments. In music for bowed strings, it means for the player to pluck with the fingers as opposed to playing with the bow. In music for guitar, it indicates for the player to mute the strings by resting the palm on the bridge, simulating the sound of pizzicato of the bowed string instruments. Regardless, it produces a very different sound than normally and doesn't ring out as long.


	21. Dolce

" _Ay! Doña_ , please! I didn't mean it. They approached _me_ and asked. They said—"

" _Silencio_ , mariachi. I'm not mad. There's no reason to kick up such a fuss. Honestly, you're getting upset over nothing."

"Nothing? Last time you were here, you were here, you were yelling about your grandson touch a guitar. And that shoe _hurt_."

"Well, this time, I'm here to ask for help finding somewhere to buy instruments for my grandchildren."

"… _Qué_?"

* * *

The light was on his son' room. Enrique noticed it streaming from under the door as he prepared to join his wife in their own bedroom. She'd retired earlier, the last stages of pregnancy making it harder for her to sleep, and he'd wanted to finish up a few things that took longer than he expected. By now, the hour was late and Miguel should have been asleep long before. He was a growing boy and it wouldn't help anyone if he resembled a sluggish lump in the morning.

But when Enrique opened the door to gently scold him into going to bed, he discovered that he didn't need to say a word on the subject. The light was on, but Miguel had fallen asleep. In the middle of a project, judging by the boy's awkward position and the various books and sheets of paper scattered around him on the bed.

Enrique briefly thought that he was working on trying to write music, the boy having embraced the educational book quite enthusiastically. But when curiosity prompted Enrique to look closer at the scattered materials, he didn't see any of the symbols. Nor did it look like normal schoolwork.

Most of the books were too thick for most boys his age. Thin scraps of paper were tucked into the pages as makeshift bookmarks, dozens of them poking out. And he saw a map of Mexico, one of the cheap paper ones generally sold to tourists, that Miguel had marked with a variety of colorful markers and with messy notes written in pen next to a few locations. Piles of loose paper were arranged in stacks that Enrique could only guess the meanings of, but were clearly organized in some manner. Sheets of paper ripped from his school notebook were scattered on top of the chaos, covered in his son's handwriting. Everything spoke of plenty of time and effort from Miguel.

What was his son hiding now?

"Miguel?" called Enrique gently, shaking his shoulder. " _Miguel_?"

"Mmm?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Running yourself ragged, _míjo_?" asked Enrique, smiling indulgently at the drowsy boy.

"Been a little busy," Miguel said before yawning.

"I can tell. Do you want to tell me what you're working on?"

Blinking, Miguel finally seemed to notice his surroundings. And he seemed to remember all his scattered materials currently on display. He glanced between the thick books and his papá a few times. Then he met Enrique's eyes, nervous and yet hopeful.

"I don't… I don't know if I can explain everything," he said. "There's… There's a lot and it's complicated. And no one else will want to hear it and I don't know if I have enough proof or if I'll _ever_ have enough and—"

" _I_ want to hear," said Enrique, interrupting the increasingly frantic stream of words. Quiet and firm, he repeated, "I want to hear, _míjo_. This is important to you, so help me understand. Start at the beginning. What are you working on here?"

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Miguel gave himself a brief shake and nodded. All hints of his earlier sleepiness had vanished as he shuffled through the various sheets of paper, some the handwritten notes and others clearly photocopied from somewhere. Enrique wasn't sure if he was looking for a specific piece of information or if he just needed the chance to organize his thoughts first. He let Miguel take his time, Enrique sitting on the edge of the bed and waiting patiently.

"Papá Héctor's songs… He wrote them and they're in Mamá Coco's letters. You saw them," Miguel said slowly. "But… someone else claimed to have written them. When I… snuck out to the plaza or when I snuck those movies into the attic, I heard his songs. I heard the songs, but I didn't know they were Papá Héctor's. Because everyone said that Ernesto de la Cruz wrote them."

Enrique held his tongue, if only barely. The adults of the household had touched on the topic of the odd coincidences connecting Señor Ernesto de la Cruz and Papá Héctor, about why the celebrity would have the guitar and the issues about the songs. But none of them wanted to broach the topic with any of the children. They wanted to spare Miguel that much.

And yet it seemed the boy had pounced on it.

"They grew up together. Ernesto and Papá Héctor. There's proof of that," he continued, gesturing at some of the papers stacked next to him. "Ernesto was even at his and Mamá Imelda's wedding. They knew each other. And look."

Miguel handed him one of the sheets of paper. A closer look revealed that it was a copy of one of Mamá Coco's letters. When did he have a chance to make a copy? As Enrique puzzled over that question, Miguel flipped open a book to a marked page.

"See? Papá Héctor left home at the same time Ernesto de la Cruz did. And look." Grabbing a different book and showing several different pages, Miguel said, "Both signatures. All these different places and they signed both their names at the inns. I even mapped it out. The blue dots mean that we know Ernesto was there on that date and the red ones are when Papá Héctor's signature or a letter proves that he was somewhere. The dates all match up. When Papá Héctor left home, he didn't go alone. They were traveling together."

Miguel traced his finger along a green line on his map, showing the path that the two musicians took across Mexico. And while there wasn't a red dot at every location a blue one appeared, they were together often enough that it couldn't be a coincidence. And the tiny scribbled dates next to each city helped support his belief that the two were traveling together.

"But then… in December 1921… that's the last time Papá Héctor's name shows up with Ernesto's signatures. A small inn… in Mexico City. After that, there's nothing. No letters. Nothing. He just disappeared."

Enrique stared at the thick books, the piles of photocopied papers, and the handwritten notes. This was clearly the results of hours of work. Hard work and research that would make a grown man hesitate. Miguel was obviously highly-motivated.

This meant the world to him.

"That's not enough, but there's more. Señor Tomás Estévez wrote a book called 'Music, Memories, and Myth: The Mysteries Behind Ernesto de la Cruz' that talks about a few other strange things about him. Things that don't add up. One of the main things that he mentioned was a songbook that Ernesto de la Cruz always kept with him. It contained all the songs that he was famous for. But when people looked at it after his death, his handwriting didn't match what was in the book. They put in a museum and everything, but they could never agree on an explanation for that. Señor Tomás Estévez thinks that it means that Ernesto did something called 'plagiarism,' which I think means that Señor Tomás Estévez thinks that Ernesto stole the songs from someone else."

Miguel shoved yet another book into Enrique's hands, forcing him juggle the rest of the research materials that his son handed him. Pictures of the contents of the songbook were spread across the page next to pictures of other samples of Ernesto de la Cruz's writing. Enrique wasn't an expert, but they didn't look that similar to each other. But it _did_ look familiar.

Clearly following his papá's train of thoughts, Miguel pointed at the copy of the letter in Enrique's other hand. Papá Héctor's letter to his daughter… _That_ handwriting looked exactly like the picture of the songbook.

"You see it, right?" Miguel asked. "Papá Héctor's songs in his handwriting in a book that Ernesto de la Cruz had? And there's something else."

He grabbed yet another book. He flipped to different pages marked by scraps of paper, pointing out dates on each one.

"All those songs… 'Un Poco Loco.' 1922. 'The World Es Mi Familia.' 1924. 'Never Knew.' Became famous from the balcony scene in ' _A Quin Yo Amo_ ,' but he claims to have written it in 1927. 'Only a Song' from ' _Nuestra Iglesia_.' The movie was in 1938, but the song was supposedly from 1930. 'Remember Me.' 1926. All those songs show up in Papá Héctor's letters _years_ before Ernesto de la Cruz supposedly came up with them," Miguel said. "I think he tried to spread them out because he could only use the songs in the book because Papá Héctor couldn't write him more after he disappeared in 1921."

"So you believe that Señor Ernesto de la Cruz stole the songbook from Papá Héctor," said Enrique slowly.

"And his guitar," he said quietly. A little louder, Miguel said, "It's a lot of little things that just keep adding up. That's the only explanation. But as bad as all that is, I can give people proof. There's one part that I can't. The worst part."

"What is the worst part then, _míjo_?" Enrique asked.

"We _know_ they traveled together. We _know_ that Ernesto took those songs and claimed them as his own," said Miguel. "There's proof. You can see it here." He gestured at the papers and books. "But… I can't _prove_ this part. I _can't_. But… why didn't Papá Héctor come forward and tell anyone that Ernesto took those songs? Why did he disappear in 1921 from his tour and stop writing letters? Something happened… something bad…"

Enrique couldn't miss the dark expression that briefly crossed his son's face. Nor could he dismiss the possibility that Miguel raised. A man could do unthinkable things for money, power, and fame. And both Luisa and Carmen agreed that the songs they'd identified as Papá Héctor's works were also the songs that made Ernesto de la Cruz's entire career.

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Enrique said slowly. "And a lot of work."

Miguel nodded and said, "Whenever I can. When I don't have school or homework or practice for guitar or you and everyone teaching me a little about making shoes so I know how to do that _and_ play music… But I find time. And I always get my homework done first." Yawning slightly, Miguel said, "I told you. It's been busy trying to do it all."

Setting everything he was holding on the floor next to the bed, Enrique asked gently, "And now that you found this proof, what is it you have in mind? What do you think should happen next?"

"The librarian? She… She figured out a little bit of what I was doing and said that if I found enough proof, she would help me. She would help get the truth out."

Enrique remembered Doña Esther López. She was always nice and helpful whenever he needed to venture into the library. And her family had been part of the Santa Cecilia community for nearly as long as the Riveras. They were simply a little less specialized. She was in charge of the library and he was relatively certain a nephew or cousin had moved to a different city for some type of job involving writing, but others did work in town hall. Administrative stuff, if Enrique recalled correctly. She might have the connections to do what she said.

"And if she tells people instead of us, no one will think we're doing this for attention or trying to be famous by calling Ernesto a liar," continued Miguel. "They might believe it coming from someone who isn't Papá Héctor's family. She can take the credit for figuring out that Ernesto stole those songs. I don't need it. I just want… I don't want people to only remember Papá Héctor as the man who never made it home to his family while remembering Ernesto de la Cruz like… like he's some kind of hero and musical genius. There's been enough secrets and lies. Everyone deserves to know the truth. That's what I want."

He looked so determined as he spoke. Enrique could see hints of the man that Miguel would someday become. It left him both proud of his son and a little sad to see him growing up so fast.

"If that's what you truly want, then that's what we'll do," Enrique said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'll talk to the rest of the family tomorrow while you're at school."

Miguel smiled, looking visibly more relaxed than he did at the start of the conversation. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders now that there was someone to help bear it.

"Now that we've sorted that out, is there anything else that you want to tell me, _míjo_?" Enrique asked.

Dropping his head, Miguel said, "I took Papá Héctor's guitar from Señor de la Cruz's crypt. That's why it vanished after _Día de Muertos_."

"I know. We figured that much out," he said gently. "You know that it was wrong to steal that guitar, right?"

"It was also wrong for Ernesto de la Cruz to steal everything from Papá Héctor," said Miguel. "I think that's worse than what I did."

"Which is why we haven't taken the guitar back yet," Enrique said. "But we'll have to deal with that eventually. And from now on, we'll handle things the right way."

" _Sí_ ," said Miguel with a nod. "And… And Dante has been sneaking in here and staying around. Oh, I should mention that Dante's a dog. He's _my_ dog. Kind of. He's a stray, but he's also mine?"

Struggling to keep a straight face, Enrique said, "Well, thank you for being honest and telling me about this. You know that you don't have to keep secrets from your family." Unable to resist any longer, he chuckled and said, "But your dog isn't exactly subtle. We know he's been staying here."

"So can I keep him?"

"Only if you promise to go to sleep now," Enrique said firmly. "It's late and you have school in the morning."

Shifting the rest of his research to the floor, Miguel scooched down until he was curled under his blanket and his head rested on his pillow. It didn't take more than a couple moments for the drowsiness to return to his expression. The late hour had obviously taken its toll on the boy. He was already dozing off by the time Enrique turned off the light.

* * *

Imelda thought that she'd broken the habit of looking in on her husband sleeping in her bed. It made sense when he was unconscious and needed someone to watch over him, when no one knew if he would survive. But it had been a little over a month since _Día de Muertos_ and a little over two weeks since he first woke up. Over two weeks since she promised herself that she would keep her distance. Almost three weeks, actually. It had been four days since their family dinner. Héctor was getting better. He was spending more time awake and he continued to look healthier.

And handsome…

But regardless, Héctor was doing better. She didn't need to check on him anymore. But Imelda needed to put a few receipts in her office and her bedroom was just down the hall. It would only take a moment to pause at the doorway and glance at the bed, Héctor undoubtedly sleeping soundly. And even though she didn't need to check on him, Imelda couldn't stop herself.

Héctor wasn't in her bed.

Unlike a few weeks ago, his absence wouldn't be enough to send her panicking. Héctor wasn't as weak anymore. He wasn't technically bedbound by his condition. Dr. García even managed to find a cane to help keep some of the weight off his broken leg and with his balance, having come to the conclusion that crutches would probably result in Héctor tumbling down the stairs. But while Héctor could theoretically move around on his own, he hadn't tried it before this point. Not without someone else accompanying him.

As Imelda wracked her mind for ideas of where he might have went, trying to ignore the thought that _he might have_ _left_ because she _couldn't_ blame him since she knew it would happen eventually and yet it _hurt_ to consider, she suddenly noticed that the door to her balcony was open.

Imelda walked over and looked out. Curled up in her favorite spot on the balcony and enjoying the sunlight warming her colorful fur and feathers, Pepita stared back at her. Her purring rumbled loudly. But the alebrije didn't move from her spot. She didn't try and bump her head against the woman, begging for attention and for someone to scratch behind her ears and horns. Pepita remained firmly in place, clearly not wishing to disturb the skeleton leaning against her side.

His legs stretched out and the cane lying on the ground next to him, Héctor slept quietly in his borrowed pajamas. Pepita's tail curled around him protectively, like he was just a gangly and clumsy kitten in need of supervision.

Part of her argued that she should either wake Héctor up or just leave him in peace. What Imelda ended up doing was sitting next to him, leaning against Pepita's side. The gentle warmth of her fur and feathers, the rumbling purr vibrating through her bones, and the cozy sunlight streaming down left a drowsy feeling behind. Imelda could understand how he drifted off. It wouldn't take too much for her to fall asleep as well.

The entire thing felt peaceful.

Héctor's head slid slightly towards her, his breathing even and deep. She could really appreciate how much better he looked now that she was so close. The colors on his face were brighter, reflecting his normally-energetic personality. The bone polish had smoothed out the dull scratches and texture, though it would take time for them to end up completely smooth. And his messy hair looked so soft and delightfully ruffled.

Almost against her will, Imelda reached out and gently ran a hand through his dark hair. Héctor smiled slightly and seemed to relax, but didn't stir any further. Embolden by that fact, Imelda repeated the gesture. It was as soft as she remembered.

Héctor slipped a little further, startling her when he ended up leaning against her. Imelda froze at the contact, her husband's weight now pressing against her side and shoulder. She held still, waiting… But he didn't wake up. He kept sleeping peacefully, unaware of how close he was to his wife. After a moment, she let herself relax.

Imelda noticed his fingers started twitching in his sleep. She'd seen those motions a lifetime ago. She recognized the fingerings of familiar chords. Music filled his dreams even now. That thought coaxed a smile to her face.

Once, they would have been like this. Sitting next to each other… Enjoying his presence and drawing comfort from his proximity… Back when they were first married, when everything seemed so simply in comparison, it would have been like this. Well, minus the giant alebrije purring at their backs.

She closed her eyes, letting her head lean against him in return. She could almost pretend that they were relaxing at home after a long day of taking care of their rambunctious daughter, something that happened countless times. And at any moment, Coco would come bounding in, ready to drag her papá off to tuck her into bed. But for the moment, the young parents could enjoy their time together in peace.

It… It was nice. To remember…

She wanted that. Her long-absent heart still ached for that even after so many years. It ached for _him_. She didn't need Héctor or those distant days; she survived just fine without him. But she wanted it. She wanted to have that again.

Maybe it was impossible. Maybe she could never get back the life together that was stolen from them. And maybe it would end in heartache and he would probably leave again. And almost certainly after she undoubtedly found a way to hurt him again. She should remain firm. She should keep to her earlier decision. It was selfish to want something so impossible.

But in that moment, out on the balcony with her husband while Pepita watched over them, Imelda wanted to hope. She wanted to _try_. And she loved him too much not to try, no matter how doomed she knew the attempt would be.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Imelda reluctantly opened her eyes. She brushed her hand through his hair again, letting the soft strands slip between her fingers. She wanted to do more, to lean in and… But she let her hand slowly fall away. And then, easing back to her feet silently, Imelda slipped away.

By the time she returned to the workshop, Imelda had made her decision. None of her family asked what took her so long as she walked past them. She was a woman on a mission. While she possessed a thorough knowledge of the various raw materials on hand, she took her time to look over the rolls of leather as the rest of the family worked on the waiting orders. She intended to take her time. Imelda always made her customers' shoes to the best of her ability, these needed to be perfect.

Her husband needed a pair of shoes.

 _He'll leave. She'll hurt him again or he'll hurt her inadvertently and then he'll leave_.

The thought echoed in her mind even as Imelda shoved it back down. It didn't matter. That fear didn't have any influence on what she was doing.

Regardless of what happened next, Héctor would walk out with the best pair of Rivera shoes that Imelda ever crafted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dolce" means to play sweetly. And if any chapter of this story so far deserves to be referred to as sweet, I think it would be this one. Things are looking up for once. Let's just hope that no one does anything to mess things up.


	22. Accarezzevole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that you had to wait for this one for a bit, but hopefully it was worth it. Things actually seem to be going smoothly for everyone now. Both the living and the dead. I wonder how long it'll last…

Héctor blinked blearily, drifting gradually back to awareness as a half-remembered song faded from his mind. The setting sun and the warmth at his back greeted him. He might have slept the day away yet again, but he woke up to a sense of peace and comfort. Like something nice happened while he rested out on the balcony. He almost wished that he was awake for whatever it was.

That was better than he expected. While he'd lost track of the days a bit, he knew that this was generally a bad time of the year for him. First would be the fallout of another _Día de Muertos_ passing in failure. Then he would be hit with his birthday, the day that he died, and Coco's birthday in quick succession. And there were the other holidays, times meant to be spent with family. None of which helped his mood. They all piled together, crushing him beneath the knowledge that he wasn't with his family and it was all his fault that he was alone. Héctor normally couldn't drag his thoughts out of that dark quagmire of guilt and heartache until the seasons began to change. Or Chicharrón knocked some sense into him. The rest of the year, he was fine and could remain optimistic. But for a couple months, it was harder.

But this year was different. He didn't cross the bridge and he was still left with those sharp reminders of how much he'd missed. But he was with his family. He could see Imelda and get to know everyone. He wasn't drowning in failure and heartache this time.

But after weeks trapped in bed and in a single room, even one that felt like Imelda so strongly that it was like she was constantly right beside him, Héctor had felt like he was suffocating. He needed to move, to explore, to see something other than the four increasingly-familiar walls. His leg didn't hurt too much to stand on and that had never stopped him before, but he wasn't supposed to put any weight on it and weariness could sneak up quickly to destroy his balance. So he knew from the start that he couldn't go far. Instead, he'd used the cane to hobble out to the balcony. The fresh air and open space had helped ease the feeling of gradually going stir-crazy.

His wife's giant and mildly terrifying alebrije curling up with him had been a bit unexpected. And initially unnerving. But at least she kept him from collapsing completely when he ventured out.

Pepita started purring as he stirred, the vibrations shaking through his bones. It felt nice. With her soft fur and feathers, it turned out that she made for a surprisingly comfortable pillow. As long as she wasn't flying him through the air on a wild ride. Or roaring at him with her fangs in his face.

He should probably get back inside. He didn't even intend to stay outside as long as he had. But he was comfortable, the fresh air felt nice, and the sunset looked beautiful. His current position was relaxing and he didn't want to move.

Another perk about his spot on the balcony was that he could see the workshop across the courtyard. Somewhere in there, his family members were hard at work crafting shoes. Day in and day out, they worked on shoes and sold them to eager customers. Even his occasional glimpses at a distance weren't enough to give him much knowledge on the process. But once he regained the strength and endurance to make it across the courtyard without the risk of collapsing, maybe he could get a closer look and spend some more time with his family.

"Who would have predicted this a year ago?" Héctor murmured drowsily. "I'm with my family. Imelda… She's let me stay in her home. I met my great-great-grandson. And… I'm still here. Somehow, I'm not gone."

But not Chicharrón. And who knows how many had vanished in the days since _Día de Muertos_. Nothing was permanent in Shantytown. Everyone disappeared eventually. He'd lost so many people over the decades. And he kept lingering, holding on even as he faded with his daughter's memories. Even when he should have disappeared like so many others, his family pulled him back from the brink.

But the other people in Shantytown? They didn't know. The last time they saw their Cousin Héctor, he was hours away from finally being forgotten. They didn't know that a miracle in the form of a cursed great-great-grandson managed to change everything. As far as they knew, no one had seen him in over a month. They would assume that he was gone.

He should let them know that he was all right. Hobbling down the stairs and across the courtyard was still beyond him, especially without help, so making his way down to the lowest levels of the city wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Maybe he could find a way to send a message.

"How about it, Pepita? Think you can carry a letter down there without scaring everyone?" he asked, only half-joking.

She turned and stared at him with her yellow eyes. After a moment, the alebrije blinked and turned away.

"I'm guessing that's a 'no' then," he said quietly.

Well, he could figure something out later. Hopefully something that wouldn't involve letting his family see the half-collapsed shanty he'd been staying in. He had a feeling that it would cause more guilt. For now, he should probably get back inside. It was growing late and he shouldn't stay on the balcony once night fell.

Not that he hadn't slept in worse conditions before…

Using both the cane and Pepita to brace himself, Héctor worked his way back to his feet. Most of the aches in his body had dulled enough that he wasn't bothered by them. He didn't even bother with the bottle of medicine now. The itching was more annoying and distracting than the aches now. Especially the rib, every breath he took making it harder to ignore. Healing shouldn't be so frustrating and slow, but he was improving. His gradually-recovering energy just happened to be focused on repairing fractures, strengthening his weakened bones, and pulling his loose joints together more firmly rather than anything else. Hence why he didn't have much energy left over for things like staying awake during the day or walking across the room without growing exhausted.

Between the cane and the alebrije, Héctor managed to hobble his way to the door of the balcony. Pepita couldn't help much once he made it back inside though. Moving his way back towards the bed was harder. Why was walking so exhausting, leaving his legs shaking? Halfway across the room, he started growing wobbly even _with_ the cane.

"This is _really_ getting old," he panted tiredly, trying to catch his breath.

As he started to have serious doubts about whether or not he would stay upright long enough to reach the bed, an arm wrapped around him to support his weight and voice said, "Let's not crack your skull open and give Dr. García more work."

" _Gracias_ ," Héctor said quietly as they managed to reach the bed without further incident.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress with a sigh of relief, he was quickly joined by Victoria. She peered over the top of her glasses at him as she crossed her arms. She, and probably the others, must have finished for the day and returned to the house while he was distracted by the laborious task of walking an incredibly short distance.

"I'm fairly certain that Dr. García left clear instructions that you could try moving _if_ someone was around to supervise," said Victoria dryly.

"I remember. Pepita supervised _very_ closely."

The expression on her face left no doubts about her views on Pepita's suitability for the task. Héctor shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

" _Lo siento_. I just needed some fresh air. It wasn't my best idea. Not my _worst_ either…"

Looking at him thoughtfully, Victoria conceded, "I suppose we should have expected that. Anyone would want to move around after spending so much time in one room. But I don't think anyone wants to tell Mamá Imelda that you managed to get hurt because you feel stir-crazy. So let's avoid that."

Chuckling lightly, Héctor gave his granddaughter a smile. Then he paused, something catching his eye.

"I haven't seen that before," Héctor said, gesturing towards her hair.

"Oh," said Victoria quietly, reaching up and touching the blue paper flower tucked in her bun. She almost looked embarrassed. "Yes. It's new."

"I think it looks nice on you," he said. "Very pretty. Just like your _abuela_."

She ducked her head slightly. He didn't know what her relationship with Julio's parents might be like, but she was just as new to having Héctor around as he was at having a granddaughter to shower with compliments and affection. There would be some awkwardness involved. But she _did_ look nice with the paper flower in her hair and he wanted to make certain that she knew it. He needed to watch his words, not wanting to risk pushing too hard. He hadn't earned the right to call her " _míja_ " or " _princesa_ ," no matter how much he already adored his smart, sensible, and strong granddaughter. But if he was careful, Héctor hoped that he could make this work.

She was Coco's daughter. Victoria was his baby girl's baby girl. How could he _not_ adore her?

"It was a gift," she continued slowly.

"From your papá?"

Victoria shook her head and said, "No. It was… a friend."

That slight hesitation that caught his attention, causing Héctor to look at her more closely. He recognized that tone and hesitation. He recognized that look in her eyes. He'd witnessed it before. Not from her, but knew it regardless.

"A friend," asked Héctor carefully, "or an admirer?"

She flinched slightly, but managed to hide any further reactions. She _did_ seem to be staring at the wall rather intently now though. It was still enough to confirm his suspicions. Victoria had an admirer who gave her the paper flower. And she was probably fond of her admirer in return.

Héctor didn't get to watch Coco and Julio's relationship develop. He didn't get to watch her excitement over the initial attraction. He didn't get to hear his daughter eagerly talk about Julio. He didn't get to smile over their growing love story until they were both completely bound together. Watching Coco fall in love with someone was something else that he'd missed.

And he wasn't Victoria's papá. She didn't need him for advice or encouragement. That was Julio's role and Héctor wouldn't try to take his place. But he could at least watch from the sidelines.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you _do_ have an admirer," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "You grew up to be a beautiful _señorita_. I'm more surprised that no one married you in life. Did all the young men in Santa Cecilia go blind since my death?"

Rolling her eyes at the flattering words and looking a little less uncomfortable than a moment before, Victoria said, "Hardly. There were simply not that many people willing to give up music _and_ risk Mamá Imelda's protective streak. And those who were… They were either not worth the time or more interested in Elena." She closed her eyes for a moment before straightening. "I wasn't the one who would catch the eye."

"That's not true," Héctor said firmly.

"You've never met Elena. She looked like Mamá when she was younger."

"But I know you. And from what I've seen, you're a lot like Imelda. Beautiful, smart, and far more caring than people probably guess." Smiling wryly, he added, "Though you didn't get your height from her. But everything else is too much like Imelda and she always managed to command all the attention in a room."

Part of him wanted to wrap an arm around her. Maybe not a full-blown hug, but a small one. But he hesitated because he _knew_ that he didn't have the right. Certainly not yet. And if he said or did something that crossed that invisible line that pushed things too far, he could lose everything that he'd gained. That fear of losing his family, of losing this one chance at having a relationship with them after so long, kept his arms at his side.

"And you've certainly caught someone's eye," he continued. "Maybe things have changed since my days, but giving a pretty _señorita_ a flower was normally a sign that you liked her."

"I'm not talking about this."

He recognized that tone. It was pure _Imelda_. It was the type of tone that, before they were married, would have resulted in him teasing Imelda a little longer and would have likely ended with her dumping a bucket of water on his head or something similar. But it would have also have eventually ended up in laughter. So he knew that he hadn't crossed that invisible line with Victoria. But he should probably tread more carefully.

He shrugged, still thankful that it no longer felt like agony to move. It was amazing how many small things there were to be thankful for.

"You don't have to talk to me. You don't even have to talk about it with Julio or Imelda or anyone else," Héctor said. "That's between you and your admirer; no one else should interfere. But don't deny what I can clearly see."

"Does everyone plan to give me love advice?" asked Victoria dryly.

Smiling half-heartedly, Héctor said, "Maybe you should listen. Then you can learn from all of my mistakes and avoid ruining everything like I did."

"Not everything is ruined," said Victoria, standing up. "Not beyond repair, at least."

And with that final piece of wisdom, she walked out of the room and down the stairs.

* * *

It was rare to have such a large group crowded around her desk. They'd descended on her quiet sanctuary, moving past her silent shelves until they'd reached her. Sometimes small crowds of children and teenagers would flood in for a day or two after their teachers assign them a project, but that was an exception. Normally she only had one or two people wandering the building at a time. But this time, half a dozen people had arrived and introduced themselves. They'd claimed a few chairs and stools that were pulled around to encircle her desk. It made her feel a little crowded. But Esther was willing to deal with them. Especially considering the circumstances.

Miguel, with his stack of books, papers, and notes, was center stage as he explained what he'd found. He was the one delivering all the evidence and presenting his case. But supporting him on all sides was several members of the family. His parents, his tío and the man's wife, and even his abuela were all listening patiently. Esther knew that if she didn't take the boy seriously, she would be facing an angry and united front.

But Esther _was_ taking him seriously. The research that she'd found for him was already concerning when combined with that _foto_. The letters, though… Those changed everything.

As Miguel's description finished and he stopped flipping through all the pages to show off examples, Elena gave a short nod and said, "There. You see? There is something wrong. You can see how that man took Papá Héctor's songs and claimed them as his own. He's a thief and a liar! That _músico_ is the kind of _músico_ that Mamá Imelda would have hated most!"

" _Mamá_ ," said Enrique gently. "It's a _biblioteca_. We need to keep our voices down. Let her speak."

"Doña López,' Berto said. "Miguel claimed that you wanted to help if you thought the evidence was strong enough. Is that true?"

"And do you think this is enough?" added Carmen. "Señor Ernesto de la Cruz was a celebrity. He starred in movies. He was considered one of the greatest musicians in all of Mexico. His reputation and fame bring tourists to Santa Cecilia because it was his birthplace. _No one_ will want to undermine that legacy. They would rather call us the liars."

"That's why none of you will bring this to the public," Esther said. "Someone unconnected will do it. Someone with nothing to gain from the truth. Someone with a reputation for finding answers. If anyone might be able to break the news to the public and have a chance of having it accepted, it would need to be such a person."

"And do you think that you can do it? That you are such a person?" asked Luisa, pressing at her lower back with a grimace.

Esther gave the heavily-pregnant woman a smile of sympathy. She'd been doing that since she arrived. Esther had provided Luisa with her favorite chair, the soft and padded one that Esther preferred for reading. But it wasn't enough to completely ease her discomfort. Throughout Miguel's explanation, Luisa had shifted and grimaced. While Esther never experienced pregnancy herself, she could only imagine how much of a strain it was on the back. She wished that she could offer the poor woman some relief.

"No, I don't believe that I can be the one to tell this story. A librarian from Santa Cecilia will not be enough to persuade many," Esther said. "But an investigative reporter from Mexico City might be different. He might even be able to convince some of those authors of these books to get involved."

"And how would you convince a reporter from Mexico City to help us?" asked Elena, crossing her arms.

Smiling wryly, Esther said, "By being his favorite family member. My _primo_ 's eldest boy, Martín, moved there ages ago and I'm certain that he would find Miguel's research and those letters quite interesting. I trust him to report the truth, no matter how little people may want to hear it at first." She glanced towards Miguel. "I think he would be impressed by your work."

He grinned at the praise, his papá patting his shoulder supportively. But as various members of the Rivera family exchanged nods and made sounds of approval over Esther's suggestion, a smothered moan broke through the quiet noise. Heads instantly twisted around.

"Luisa?" asked Enrique worriedly, reaching for her hand as she grimaced and curled slightly inwards around her belly.

"Mamá?"

As Miguel abandoned his piles of research and tried to hurry over to her, panic in his voice, Luisa managed to straighten a little and gave him a weak smile. It didn't completely reassure him. Nor did anyone else seem to relax as they fussed over her. But it was enough to keep the boy from growing more concerned.

"I'm all right," Luisa said, addressing the entire worried family. "But we may want to leave soon." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I think… I think that Miguel's brother or sister wants to meet everyone."

* * *

Coco watched Manny and Benny play in the courtyard, though their Tía Gloria was helping to supervise them. She knew something was happening today. Something _more_ than Miguel heading off with his stack of books and half the family to talk to the librarian about Ernesto and his songs. An earlier phone call caused Franco to gain a concerned expression and vanished with Abel and Rosa. But no one told her what was happening.

Or perhaps they told her and she forgot. Her memory might have improved, but it wasn't perfect.

Dante yawned and stretched next to her wheelchair. He'd been spending a lot of time with her lately. Whenever he wasn't running around with Miguel, the dog seemed to stay close to her. Perhaps he sensed her approaching demise, something that could not be denied at her age. The hairless thing with his tongue lolling out was supposed to be a spirit guide and he could probably sense such things.

Or more likely, the food she kept sneaking him had something to do with it.

Regardless, Coco wasn't ready to die quite yet. Not until she knew for certain that Ernesto's legacy was being dismantled and her papá's memory would be maintained. She told Miguel every story that she could drag up from her distant childhood. She told Abel and Rosa stories. She told Manny and Benny stories when their attention focused on her long enough. And she listened carefully every time that Miguel updated her on his research on how to undermine Ernesto de la Cruz.

She would not die until the truth was known. The Rivera stubbornness would keep her alive. It was hurt being separated from her husband, just as it was hurt outliving her precious daughter by so much. Though losing her baby girl hurt far worse. But she would see Julio and Victoria soon enough. She would finally get to see Papá again. She just had to wait a little longer. She couldn't leave until she was certain everything was taken care of.

Coco told Miguel that she would help him. And she intended to keep that promise as best as she could. In the meantime, she still had great-great-grandchildren to watch.

At least Manny and Benny weren't climbing all over the dog anymore. Dante didn't snap at them even when they pulled on his ears, but they could certainly test his patience until he was forced to hide from the young twins. Today they were leaving Dante in peace though. And he was taking advantage of it by napping in what remained of the fading light from the sunset.

Was it really that late? Where did the day go?

"Mamá Coco?" called Miguel excitedly, running into the courtyard.

Chuckling slightly, she said, "Slow down, _míjo_. Did your meeting go well? You've been gone all day."

"It went great. Doña López has some ideas how to get the truth out. But I've got even better news," said Miguel. He took her hands gently in his own. "Mamá is fine, but she's at the hospital with my new baby sister."

"Luisa had her baby?" Coco asked. "I thought Elena said she had another week or so."

"Well, she's a little early. She's so tiny and she already has some hair. And you should see how little her fingers are," described Miguel, words practically tumbling out of him. "And guess what her name is?"

Coco tried to remember if anyone discussed possible names. Did Luisa or Enrique mention any ideas?" She didn't remember hearing any. Would they name the baby after a family member? Rosa was named for her Tía Rosita. Perhaps they would call her "Imelda." But whatever it was must be a good name if Miguel looked so excited by it.

"I don't know, _míjo_ ," she said finally. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Her name is Socorro. They named her after you, Mamá Coco."

Well… She didn't expect that. And how else could she respond other than to smile?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the sheet music indicates that you should play "accarezzevole," that means that it intends for the music to sound expressive and caressing. An appropriate style for a chapter with some family bonding and the arrival of a new baby.
> 
> So I've expanded the López family tree a bit once again. And I had to figure out how to handle Mexican surnames in order to do so. The middle name (1st surname) traditionally comes from the father's name (apellido paterno), and the last name (2nd surname) is the mother's maiden name (apellido materno). The Rivera family all just keeping "Rivera" as their surname or adopting it upon joining the family is due to being a rather notable family within Santa Cecilia, something that happens in certain circumstances. But that isn't the case for the López family, which follows the more tradition naming scheme. That means that in order to figure out someone's name and whether or not they would still have López as part of it, I had to nail down their exact relationships. 
> 
> Helena Pérez López, as you might remember, is the Departures/Arrivals agent from the film. Esther López's mother is sisters with Helena's mother. And the not-yet-introduced Martín's father is Helena's brother. Normally that would mean that he would not have the López as part of his name, but sometimes people hyphenate the two surnames. So his full name is Martín Pérez-López Campos.
> 
> There you go. Hopefully you're enjoying this family. And I hope you're enjoying what's happening within in the Rivera family too. It seems it just got a little bigger with their newest addition.


	23. Call and Response

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for another exciting chapter for this story, albeit a shorter one. Lots of OCs in this one, but I think you'll survive. And we'll get to see Miguel later. So let's jump right in.

Martín Pérez-López Campos' phone rarely stopped ringing for long. It was one of the side effects of his career. He was almost always receiving calls or making them. Chasing after a story often involved that kind of legwork. But since he was between projects at the moment, he wasn't expecting a call.

So when the shrill ringing filled his apartment that morning, he knew it was either an informant with the first crumbs of a new story or a personal call.

Picking up the receiver on the fourth ring, he greeted, " _Hola_?"

"Martín? This is Esther López. Your papá's _prima_?" said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Prima Esther?" He remembered her fondly from growing up in Santa Cecilia, but he certainly didn't expect to hear from her out of the blue. "Is everything all right? Did something happen at home?"

"Nothing is wrong. But I have a question for you, Martín."

Settling into his chair and resting his elbow on the desk next to the telephone, he said, "Anything."

"I need you to break a story. One that a lot of people aren't going to like. But the world deserves the truth and I know you'll give it to them."

Martín smiled, already intrigued by her vague words. It sounded like a challenge and he always did like a challenge. It was why he moved to Mexico City in the first place. It was why he moved away from the rest of his family, though he made certain to visit them around the holidays. There were far more opportunities for an investigative reporter there. Especially when it came to interesting and difficult stories.

And Esther wouldn't bring him a story unless it was particularly interesting.

"Some of the groundwork is already done," she continued. "I can mail you a copy of the research so far. And a list of authors who might be useful to contact."

"And what story am I supposed to be investigating, Prima Esther?" asked Martín.

For a moment, the phone was silent. All that Martín could hear was the ceiling fan overhead and the traffic outside his apartment. He took this moment to pull his notepad and pencil across the table.

"You remember those stories about Ernesto de la Cruz?"

Picking up the pencil with his free hand, Martín said, "I grew up in Santa Cecilia like the rest of our family. And I haven't been gone _that_ long. I remember the stories, _sí_."

"Well, we may have proof that early in his career," she said slowly, "Ernesto had a partner. He toured with another musician named Héctor Rivera."

"All right," said Martín, scribbling down the name. Then he frowned thoughtfully. "Rivera? Any relationship to—"

"The Rivera shoemakers? The ones with the music ban because their ancestor left to play songs and never came home? _Sí_. And there's more."

"More than a possible connection between a family of music-hating shoemakers and the greatest musician in Mexican history?" asked Martín.

"There's evidence that Héctor Rivera wrote all of Ernesto's songs years before Señor de la Cruz claimed to," Esther said.

Martín dropped the pencil. The story was just as interesting as promised. Possibly even more so. Investigating the topic would stir up more controversy than he could imagine, even if turned out to be a dead end. And since Esther was the one bringing it to him, he doubted it was a false lead.

"You know that if I pursue this story, I'll be facing every lawyer that his old records company can dig up, right? They won't want anything to threaten the song rights and their money. Which is exactly what this story would do," said Martín.

"Would that actually stop you?"

Laughing, Martín said, "No. Not even slightly."

Yes, he got into this job because he thought people deserve to know the truth, no matter the subject. It was why he investigated every story so thoroughly. Even when he ended up in a few tight spots over the course of his career, he refused to back down and compromise his integrity. He truly believed that people deserved the truth.

But he also became an investigative journalist because he liked it. He liked uncovering all these hidden facts and unraveling lies. He liked solving the mystery of it all. He liked the challenge.

And this was going to be the challenge of a lifetime. He was going to have so much fun unraveling this.

"Go ahead and mail me the research," he said. "I'll see what you've got so far and move forward from there."

" _Gracias_. I appreciate it."

" _De nada_. You know that I'd probably _pay_ for a chance to investigate a story like this. But then," he said, still grinning excitedly at the prospect, "you and Tía Helena always loved a good mystery. Are you surprised that I like them too?"

* * *

Tomás didn't often ask his abuela for stories. He listened around _Día de Muertos_ , but that was what the holiday was supposed to be about. But Miguel kept talking about his Papá Héctor, his mysterious musician ancestor. He'd even pointed out how the man would have been in Santa Cecilia at the same time as Ernesto de la Cruz. Tomás liked to entertain the possibility that they could have played together a few times before Ernesto de la Cruz left. And that sparked an idea. What if _he_ had someone in his family that interesting too? And thus Tomás was quizzing his abuela that evening.

She worked her way through an old photo album, naming each face, their relation, and brief stories about them. Tomás recognized most of them from the _ofrenda_. But he wanted more than that. He wanted to learn about the more obscure members of the family. So with each member, Tomás asked if they had siblings, if they had _primos_ , or if they were married. Anything to spark her memory.

If Miguel had cool relatives, then Tomás was going to find some too.

"I don't suppose he's a musician," he muttered as she turned to an older foto.

Mamá Lucía paused, frowning thoughtfully. After a few moments, she blinked in surprise.

"No, Mario wasn't a musician," said Mamá Lucía slowly. "But… there was…" She shook her head a little. "I haven't thought about him in ages. I'd almost forgotten about him."

"Who?"

"A distant primo of mine from before we moved to Santa Cecilia," said Mamá Lucía. "He died before I was born. The Spanish Flu. It wiped out most of that part of the family. I heard a few stories when I was a little girl though. He never married and never had children, but he could make even the most worn out instrument sing. He wasn't as famous as Señor de la Cruz, but they apparently liked him. He survived the Revolution through sheer luck only to die from illness. Such a shame."

Well, it wasn't much so far, but it could be interesting. A musician relative who lived through the Revolution. Maybe there could be some cool stories, even if he didn't know any celebrities. Technically, he didn't even know if Miguel's great-great-grandfather did. It would still be something semi-interesting to share with his classmates. Maybe Miguel would be impressed whenever he stopped being completely distracted by his new baby sister.

"Tell me what you remember, Mamá Lucía. What was his name?"

Smiling with a distant look in her eyes, she said, "Carlos. Carlos Mata."

* * *

Miguel stared through the bars of the crib, humming softly as the baby slept on her back. Socorro wasn't the first baby that he'd seen. Benny and Manny were this small only a few years ago. But that was different. He was just a little kid when they were born, a nine-year-old kid hiding a big secret and trying to learn how to play a guitar in his spare time.

And Socorro was different than those two. His little sister, with her big eyes and tiny fingers, fascinated him. And when she heard music, she would stop crying and calm down. Socorro loved music and Miguel loved _her_.

"And you'll have music," he whispered. "You'll be able to sing and dance as much as you want. You won't have to sneak around and hide it. You'll never live with a music ban."

Reaching through the bars, Miguel stroked her hand. A quiet whimper of complaint slipped out of her, but Socorro didn't wake up. She was so small and cute. He couldn't stop staring at her even after a couple weeks of watching her.

"I'll sing you all sorts of songs," he continued. "And I'll tell you all about our family. All of them. Papá Héctor, Mamá Imelda, Papá Julio, Tía Rosita, Tía Victoria, Tío Oscar, and Tío Felipe. I'll tell you all the stories."

He continued to stroke her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth. Her fingernails looked too tiny to be real. Miguel couldn't believe how much time he was spending with her. It was probably a good thing that he didn't need to do the research anymore. He just couldn't leave her alone.

Was this anything like how Papá Héctor felt about Mamá Coco?

"I'm going to be the best big brother possible," he said quietly. "You'll see. I'll even show you how to keep Abuelita from completely stuffing you with food. And I'll take you to Mariachi Plaza when you get bigger."

Miguel reluctantly pulled his arm back through the crib bars. He couldn't stay there all day. Mamá would probably be in soon to check on Socorro. And he should work a little more on learning to read music. He was starting to remember a few of the symbols now.

"I'll be back later," Miguel whispered.

* * *

Rosa ran her fingers over the smooth dark wood, staring at the way the light reflected off the surface. The violin was absolutely beautiful. The texture of the strings, the darkness she glimpsed through the carved openings, and the slight heft in her hands didn't seem real. And she'd never expected Abuelita to choose such a gift. A musical instrument…

She reached for the bow and the small cube of rosin from the case. After a few visits to the plaza to question the musicians and looking over a few books, Rosa believed that she knew the basics. She carefully tightened the horsehair on the bow and ran the rosin along the length, finishing up the basic preparations as far as she remembered.

Rosa paused, glancing at the bedroom door to make certain it was closed. She wasn't breaking any rules and she wasn't doing anything wrong, though part of it still felt like it. The rest of the family knew what she was probably doing. But for her first attempt, Rosa wanted a little privacy. There was no reason to start off with an audience.

Taking a moment to straighten her glasses and shifting her position on the edge of her bed so she felt more comfortable, Rosa wrapped her left hand around the neck of the instrument and lifted it from the case. She carefully slipped the violin under her chin, her fingers resting on the strings. Her right hand came up with the bow to the proper position. Everything looked right so far.

With a slow and steady motion, Rosa pulled the bow across the string and—

_Squawk_

Rosa flinched at the harsh sound, nearly dropping the bow. Okay, _that_ didn't work. Even someone who spent a lifetime under a music ban could tell _that_ sounded bad. She must have pushed down too hard or something.

She could figure this out. If she could get good grades in school _and_ learn the basics of making shoes, then she should be able to work out how to play at least a few notes on her own. Maybe she would get proper advice and lessons later on, but she wanted to do this part on her own.

If her _primo_ could teach himself to play entire songs while hiding up in the attic, then she could manage a few notes that didn't make her grit her teeth.

Readjusting her grip slightly, Rosa positioned the bow lightly on the thinnest string. Only the first string and with only the faintest pressure. Once more, she drew the bow across the instrument.

Soft and sweet, a wavering note rang out. It wasn't loud, but it was pretty. Reversing the direction so that she was pushing instead of pulling continued the sound.

Growing a bit bolder, Rosa pressed her index finger down on the string and listened to how it altered the pitch. A few more minutes of careful experimentation produced a variety of sounds. Not all of them were as pretty, but none of them were as bad as her initial sound.

She certainly wouldn't be playing songs by morning, but she at least felt a bit more confident about this now. She at least had an idea of what she was doing. Rosa was also beginning to see why Miguel went to so much trouble to seek out music in the first place.

* * *

"Are you kidding me? You already have that lying, murdering _músico_ on film!" shouted Imelda into the telephone receiver. "A whole crowd of people saw him trying to kill my great-great-grandson! You have a recording of him throwing Miguel off a building! What more do you need?"

Julio cringed as she listened to the response on the other end of the line. The telephone in the workshop mostly served to discuss shoe orders, but not today. The entire family had paused their work when Mamá Imelda's polite professionalism upon answering gave way to her current displeasure. Julio greatly pitied the poor soul talking to her.

It was probably a good thing she answered in the workshop rather than in the house. Héctor probably didn't need to listen to this.

" _No!_ " snarled Imelda. "You have _that man's_ confession. You have the recordings of his other crimes from _Día de Muertos_. And if we must, we'll come in. But you will leave him alone. You will _not_ make him go anywhere near Ernesto. Never again. And you will ensure we remain out of the public's sight. Ernesto has caused this family enough issues and I won't let him or his fame harm us any longer. Do I make myself clear?"

She listened for several moments, her expression fierce. Imelda nodded a few times and gave one-word responses to questions that her family couldn't hear. They just stayed frozen and silent at their workstations, wondering what was happening. Finally, she snapped a sharp farewell and slammed the receiver down to end the call. It was a miracle that nothing cracked on impact.

While Imelda was still gritting her teeth and breathing hard, Victoria crossed her arms and asked her abuela, "And what was that about?"

"Ernesto de la Cruz and his trial," she said, practically spitting out the words. "Apparently in order to get through this legal mess and lock him away, they can't just do the obvious thing and _just lock him up_. They need to hear the story from half a dozen people even when everyone knows the truth. Even when they have his actions on film and his confession to murder."

"They want Héctor to give his testimony?" asked Rosita.

Barking out a harsh laugh, Imelda said, "They can want whatever they like, but we're not putting him through that. The last few months have been hard enough already. Anything that Héctor could tell them, Ernesto has already confessed. Those people will gain nothing by trying to make him sit there in front of a jury and talk about how his best friend _betrayed and murdered him!_ "

"Then," said Oscar carefully, eyeing her furious expression, "what else—"

"—do they want?" Felipe continued.

Taking a deep breath in a visible attempt to calm herself, Imelda said, "Julio."

"What?" he yelped, pulling his hat down tight. "Why me?"

"Since you are the closest dead relative to Miguel, you get the final say on what happens with Ernesto's belongings when they find him guilty of trying to murder our boy," said Imelda. "But it shouldn't be difficult, _míjo_. All you'll need to do is describe what happened to Miguel that night and tell them what to do with Ernesto's property, belongings, and offerings when he's officially found guilty. Just go along with what I say and it should go smoothly."

"And what are you going to do about the paparazzi, Mamá Imelda?" Victoria asked as Julio tried to push down the waves of panic. "We managed to stay out of the spotlight so far, but I've heard enough of the news reports. The courthouse is surrounded by reporters trying to catch a glimpse of the closed court. If they see you and Papá walk in, they'll swoop in on the workshop within an hour."

"Apparently they have an inner courtyard out of sight of the crowds that they use to ferry in witnesses and such via alebrijes," said Imelda. "The only ones who'll see us will be the judge, the lawyers, and the jury. We should be able to keep our names out of the mess for a little longer."

Julio was thankful for that much. He dreaded the idea of fame and didn't want it seeking them out. Having that many people watching constantly seemed wrong. Even thinking about it felt suffocating. How could anyone live like that?

"When do we need to go?" Julio asked.

"Tomorrow, bright and early. They offered their own alebrije for transportation, but Pepita should be fine. She isn't too distinctive at a distance, so riding her shouldn't lead back to our home or business."

Oh… Flying on Pepita wasn't exactly his favorite activity. She made him almost as nervous as Imelda in one of her more intense moods. Maybe it was her size or her large fangs, but the alebrije was intimidating and her unnerving eyes always made him feel like a cornered mouse.

But as anxious as he was about flying to the courtyard on Pepita, the idea of arguing over it with Mamá Imelda was even more terrifying.

So he was going to fly across the city in the morning, give his statement, and tell them to give all of Ernesto's stuff to the people of Shantytown like Imelda suggested. He could handle it.

"And now that we've got _that_ sorted out, let's get back to work. We have orders to fill," said Imelda.

Thankful to focus on more comfortable and familiar things again, Julio picked up the in-progress wingtips on the bench. The workshop filled with the sounds of sewing machines and light hammering once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Mamá Imelda had pulled back out those shoes again. The ones that she kept undoing and redoing, never satisfied with even a single stitch. Maybe she claimed that she was working on a special order, but the family could guess the truth.

But if Imelda didn't want to admit that she was making the shoes for Héctor, just as Julio gave Coco the first pair that he made and Elena made Franco boots and so on, then they could keep quiet for now. They knew what the gesture implied. They didn't have to discuss it.

Though things would be so much simpler if Mamá Imelda would stop avoid Héctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In music, a "call and response" is a succession of two distinct phrases usually written in different parts of the music, where the second phrase is heard as a direct commentary on or in response to the first. Like the "shave and a haircut… Two bits!" knocking pattern. 
> 
> In this case, it is also a pun on the phone calls that begin and end this chapter.
> 
> And while I played brass instruments when he was older, I played a violin briefly when I was around eight. It probably seemed obvious with Rosa's section.


	24. Agitato

Héctor sat on the bottom stair, nearly recovered from his journey so far. It didn't sound impressive to describe. Not unless he compared it to his recent weakness and inability to exert much energy. Compared to even a few weeks ago, this was an accomplishment.

Once, years ago and before Coco's memory frayed quite as much, he could have ran across the entire city without much trouble. He could climb up and down the spiraling towers, from the most modern near the top all the way to the lowest levels of Shantytown. But by the end of _Día de Muertos_ , even lifting his head had been impossible. As slow and annoying as it was to feel so limited, he was starting to appreciate how hard recovering can truly be.

After the family left the house early that morning, he'd slowly managed to change out of the borrowed pajamas and pull on his own repaired clothes. Then he hobbled his way across the room, along the short hallway, and down the stairs before needing to recuperate. And he did it without any help.

Definitely progress.

Resting and giving himself time to recover his strength, Héctor absently noticed that he was scratching at his ribs again. He'd already forced himself to stop scratching at the bindings around his leg at least twice since he made it to the bottom stair. The itching was getting worse, something that he couldn't ignore as easily anymore. At least Dr. García seemed encouraged by the development. And the itching wasn't as unpleasant as the previous aches and pains. But it was certainly annoying.

"This isn't going to get any easier," he muttered to himself as he reached for the cane again.

Honestly, Héctor wasn't completely certain this was his smartest idea. Even with his occasional trip out of the room, under actual supervision after Victoria scolded him for stumbling out to the balcony alone, he never made it very far. But today was the day. He'd been planning this for a while. He wasn't going to turn back now.

He was going to make it to their workshop.

Slowly standing back up, Héctor kept his weight on his good leg, the cane, and the wall. He didn't want a lecture about walking on a broken tibia or for Dr. García to go through with his threat to confiscate his leg. Not to mention that since the fracture was actually healing, trying to walk on it would rebreak the bone where it was starting to knit together. And _that_ hurt too much to risk it.

He edged his way gradually, never leaving the support of the wall. It was a nice and sturdy wall, unlike his own limbs when he pushed them too hard. He liked this wall. It was a _good_ wall. The wall of the front room of the house was now his _favorite_ wall.

Slow and steady, Héctor hobbled along. And with the help and support of his absolute favorite wall, he eventually reached the door and managed to get it open.

The courtyard looked a lot larger than it did from the balcony.

Héctor took a deep breath before leaving the support of the wall. Now would be the perfect time for Pepita to show back up. She would be helpful to lean against while crossing the vast empty distance. Why couldn't that alebrije show up now? She used to appear out of nowhere all the time when he used to try and talk to Imelda in the past, but now the giant terrifying cat wasn't anywhere in sight.

Never mind. He could do this. Just one slightly-wobbling step at a time.

Other than the distant calls of a few alebrijes, he couldn't hear much as he moved forward. The _click_ of bone and the _tap_ of the cane filled the silence of the vast courtyard. And by the time that he made it halfway across, his heavy panting joined the quiet sounds of his steps.

He could do this. His legs were growing shaky and he was struggling to catch his breath, but he could do this. He was past the point of being able to turn back anyway.

His wife wasn't the only one who could be stubborn. If he could fling himself at the dumb flower bridge year after year, then he could keep going a little longer.

By the time he drew near the door to the workshop, Héctor had both hands wrapped tightly around the cane and his entire body was wobbling badly. He could hear his joints rattling and shaking. If his bones were any looser like in the past, he would be a crumbled pile on the ground. Even when he grabbed the door frame and leaned his body against it, his balance improved only slightly.

Definitely not his smartest idea. Right up there with his bridge-crossing stunt involving the van.

He wasn't going to be upright much longer. Héctor could feel it. He wasn't certain if he would collapse on the ground first or pass out from exhaustion while standing. Either one was a possibility. He'd been doing better about not passing out or sleeping all the time, but Héctor recognized the feeling creeping over him. He'd definitely pushed himself too far.

Héctor fumbled for the door, trying to get it open before the risk of cracking his skull open by falling became a certainty. Leaning heavily against the doorframe helped, keeping him upright while he tried to remind himself of how doors were supposed to work. It was a good doorframe. It was a nice doorframe. He hoped the wall in the front room didn't feel jealous, but this was _definitely_ his favorite doorframe. Nice, steady, and comfortable. Very dependable.

He finally managed to get the door to swing open, but he couldn't bring himself to go any further. He didn't want to risk moving away from the support of the doorframe. He suspected that if he tried, gravity would be extra cruel to him and yank his wobbling frame straight down.

Nope. He was staying with his favorite doorframe, propping himself up against it like how Imelda would tuck the broom in a corner when she wasn't using it.

"Héctor?"

Rosita's worried voice was quickly joined by a few others, but she was the one who snagged him. The sturdy doorframe was replaced by the skeleton in a comfortable pink dress. Maybe it was disloyal to the nice and helpful doorframe, but Rosita was even better support. She had arms to help hold him up. And then the twins and Victoria swarmed around him, providing further help.

Héctor allowed them to maneuver his exhausted body into the workshop. He heard someone drag something across the floor before they forced him onto a stool they'd positioned in front of a thick structural post. Héctor sank onto the seat thankfully, leaning back against the post. He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

"What are you—"

"—doing here? Are you—"

"all right?"

" _Pobrecito_. You look completely exhausted. Did you come out here all on your own?"

"I thought you weren't going to do that sort of thing again."

The flurry of questions and remarks swirled around his skull, but Héctor could barely spare them a thought. His energy was solely focused on staying awake and sitting upright. And the sturdy post at this back was mostly responsible for the latter.

"Give him a moment," said Victoria, breaking through the chaos. "We're crowding him."

Everyone grew quieter, leaving Héctor grateful to his granddaughter. His breathing gradually settled back down. Only then did he manage to pry his eyes open again and see several worried faces staring back at him.

"I could have planned this better," he admitted quietly.

"And what _was_ the plan?" asked Victoria.

That would be difficult to explain. He wasn't completely certain that _he_ knew the plan. It was mostly a collection of half-realized desires.

Come down to the workshop? See if they would let him enter this space or if it would cross the line? Test the limits slowly to see where the boundaries were, figuring out how far he could push before they cast him out once more? Spend time with them while he still could? See Imelda in her element, working at something she was good at and seemed to enjoy?

Wait…

"Where's Imelda?" he asked tiredly.

There was a quick exchange of looks among the various family members. Héctor wished that he could decipher the meaning behind their silent conversation, but he didn't have the energy to try. Keeping awake was tough enough to manage.

No wonder his recovery was taking so long. Every time he gained a little more strength, he burned through it with some type of stunt.

"She and Julio are running an errand," said Rosita finally. "They'll be back later."

Victoria nodded and said, "If you're comfortable resting on the stool, you can stay here and wait for them to come back. We'll help you back into the house this evening."

" _Gracias_. I… I think staying put is a good idea."

Yes, not moving sounded like a wonderful plan. The comfortable stool under him and the sturdy post against his back felt nice. A wooden beam meant to support the roof shouldn't feel so good, but leaning against it… No, Héctor had no intentions of moving anywhere for a while.

The family slowly drifted back towards their different workstations and he heard the sounds of progress resume. He tried to watch their efforts, but he was too tired to pay close attention. But he could at least appreciate their focus and dedication to their craft. It looked impressive, at least from his angle.

Imelda would be back soon. He just needed to stay awake until then.

* * *

"And then we finally managed to send Miguel home," finished Julio, still twisting his hat in his hands as he explained everything to a room full of strangers. "We didn't find out what happened to Señor de la Cruz until a few days later."

"Gracias, Señor Rivera." Señor Luis Salinas, a prosecutor with purple dots along his jawline, gave him a nod of thanks. "The recordings from the Sunrise Spectacular, which the jury were shown yesterday, supports your account of events. And I am certain that the jury appreciates you coming in and describing the actions of the defendant in your own words for the night in question."

Imelda watched as her son-in-law tried to relax. Julio wasn't a coward. He was not even close to one. But certain things made him nervous and anxious. Those things included his mother-in-law, Pepita for some reason, verbal confrontations, and public speaking. He could manage though. For his family, he could and did face those fears.

And she could understand his unease. Even though she was the only person who could be called an audience for the trial, sitting on the empty benches behind the lawyers, the small room gave off a slightly intimidating feeling. There were no windows and the path they took to reach this particular courtroom involved narrow hallways that slipped past all prying eyes. And inside the room, it felt too quiet and enclosed. Even with only a handful of people actually inside the secure and private space, Imelda could feel the tension.

It was a little surprising how few people were involved in a trial that felt, at least to her, to be rather important and large event. To the side sat the small group of random skeletons serving as the jury, silently observing the events. They'd apparently be sequestered away from the public since the trial began. A stern-looking judge was framed on either side by a pair of grim bailiffs. And in addition to Señor Salinas and the defense lawyer listening to Julio, there was the man himself.

Ernesto de la Cruz.

Sitting this close to him left Imelda gritting her teeth. The injuries from the last time she saw him were long gone. The benefits of being well-remembered. All the fractures would have healed in almost no time, his white bones whole and intact once more. But there were at least a few signs that he wasn't as well-off as he was before. His expensive suits were a distant memory. Someone managed to force him out of his tailored clothes and into a striped jumpsuit. The clothes of a criminal. It didn't provide much comfort, but Imelda took some vindictive pleasure in his frustrated expression with the situation.

Another boot to the skull would be more satisfying though…

As Señor Salinas reclaimed his seat, the defense lawyer stood up Señor Gael Chávez was one of the better ones available and was probably on Ernesto's payroll for decades. But though he didn't look completely comfortable with his client's crimes, he was still doing his job. And the red triangles around his eye sockets made him look rather intimidating.

"Señor Rivera," he began evenly, "I will admit that the evidence against my client is… difficult to dispute. But is it not true that your family would benefit from the defendant being found guilty and that's why you're here today?"

"Objection," interrupted Señor Salinas. "Leading the witness."

"It is relevant to the reliability of the witness' testimony," he said.

"Sustained," said the judge. "Continue, but with caution."

"The crimes of Assault and Attempted Murder of the Living, while both have rarely if ever been pursued, carry both an imprisonment sentence and the surrender of all the defendant's property, belongings, and offerings to the victim's deceased family. Which means as the closest direct relative of the boy, you would gain them, correct?"

Ernesto crossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder, meeting Imelda's gaze with a smug expression. He probably thought that his lawyer would discredit the Rivera family and make the whole mess disappear. He was rich and famous. He must be used to escaping consequences.

But not this time. Imelda would keep her temper and keep quiet, going along with the trial and not giving any of these people a reason to doubt that Ernesto was a lying, stealing, selfish murderer. No matter how much she wanted to smack that look off his face, she would stay still and silent. He wouldn't slither out of this mess.

And if the trial didn't deal with Ernesto properly, then Imelda and Pepita could hunt him down later. See how _he_ liked being tossed in a sinkhole.

"Actually, we don't intend to keep any of Señor de la Cruz's belongings," said Julio. "As we told Señor Salinas when we spoke earlier, anything of Señor de la Cruz's that the court tries to award to us will be donated to those who don't receive offerings from _ofrendas_. Those who are nearly forgotten and with no family of their own. They need such things far more than we do. Mamá Imelda even told the police that when she gave her statement."

That seemed to knock both the lawyer and Ernesto for a loop. Señor Chávez startled and stopped his current line of questioning while Ernesto's expression shifted from smug to disgust.

"You want to give _my_ belongings, _my_ offerings from _my_ fans, and even _my_ house to those _people_?" said Ernesto.

The judge knocked the gavel a couple times, trying to remind him not to speak out of turn. And perhaps once he would have apologized for the outburst and offer a charming smile to the judge. Ernesto always knew how to use his charisma to his advantage. But apparently the last few months had frayed his impulse control. Instead of growing silent at the judge's warning, Ernesto kept talking.

"Let's drop this charade. I've put up with this game for long enough and I'm tired of it. We all know what will happen. I'll pay a fine and perhaps stage a few free performances for community service. And then I'll sue the entire Rivera family for their part in this attempt to slander my name. Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time, will not be locked away like some criminal. And I _certainly_ won't lose my possessions to those useless, broken, abandoned skeletons squatting in the lowest levels of the Land of the Dead. Not because of some grave-robbing brat or a known trouble-making liar that even his _wife_ hoped would disappear."

The gavel was banging loudly, practically echoing in the closed room as the judge tried to restore order over Ernesto's voice. Imelda's phalanges dug into the fabric of her dress as she sat still as a statue, barely hearing Señor Chávez trying to quiet his client or the judge warning Ernesto how close he was to being found in contempt of court. She was too focused on keeping still and silent. Her entire body shook from the strain. Fighting the overpowering urge to leap to her feet and lash out at the man, physically and verbally, was exhausting.

Imelda didn't know she could hate someone this much. Not until she learned the truth on _Día de Muertos_. But no matter how strongly she wanted to crack his skull again, she would let him dig his own grave.

As everyone settled back down and court resumed, Señor Chávez said, "So you claim that you and your family have no interest in the material possessions of the defendant. I find that hard to believe. He is a very rich man and that would be a lot to give away to people that you don't know."

"Well," said Julio, shifting his hat between his hands again, "I just don't see what we would need such a big and fancy house for. And even if we sold it, there would still be too much for us. We have enough already. Honestly, the only thing that might be useful is one of those guitars. I'm sure Héctor would appreciate having something to occupy his time as he finishes recovering."

" _What?_ "

The loud, confused, and angry outburst made everyone jump. The twisted expression on Ernesto's face made it clear that it was fortunate that he was already dead. Otherwise his current fury would cause an apoplexy and kill him.

"That's impossible," he continued to shout. "He was forgotten. He's _less_ than a memory now."

"Actually, Héctor was only _nearly_ forgotten," corrected Julio. "Dr. García has been supervising his recovery. Señor Salinas wanted Héctor to give his testimony as well, but Mamá Imelda…" He chuckled nervously. "She convinced him that Héctor's health was more important."

"Unless the defense thinks that his testimony will help their case and wants to subpoena an invalid that the defendant allegedly murdered without punishment in the first place?" said Señor Salinas innocently, ignoring Ernesto's frustrated rants and the _banging_ of the gavel.

Señor Chávez's eyes widened at the suggestion. Even if Ernesto refused to believe the possibility of the charges actually affecting him, the lawyer recognized the severity of the situation. And there was no possible way that having Héctor limp into the room could make the celebrity seem like the injured party in these proceedings.

Even if it wasn't just Ernesto and Imelda had a large hand in her husband's condition…

"That won't be necessary," said Señor Chávez.

"Fine. Unless you have any further questions, I suggest you excuse Señor Rivera and we'll take a short recess." The judge glared at both the lawyer and Ernesto sharply. "Use that time to get your client under control. He's used up my limited patience and I _will_ hold him in contempt if I hear another word out of him."

Julio visibly slumped with relief as he fled the stand. The jury was ushered out of the room in one direction while Ernesto vanished through another door, practically pushed by his whispering lawyer. Imelda waited quietly as the judge left the courtroom before voicing her suspicions aloud.

"You were hoping that he would react like that," she said as Julio sat down next to her. "You mentioned Héctor because you knew it would cause another out-burst."

Shrugging uneasily, he said, "It made Señor de la Cruz look bad in front of the jury, it made the judge angrier with him, and I don't have to answer any more questions."

"Very nicely done, _míjo_. I'm proud of you."

* * *

As Oscar and Felipe paused in their work, making certain to keep track of which needle belonged to which brother as they set them aside, they took a moment to see how Héctor was recovering. He seemed to be doing better now than when he staggered into the workshop earlier. Granted, he looked drowsy as he rested on his stool in the middle of the room. But the skeleton wasn't visibly wobbly or shaking anymore.

Felipe _did_ notice that Héctor kept trying to watch them work. Whether or not he held any true interest in making shoes, it was probably still more interesting than sitting alone in a room all the time. Now that he seemed to stay awake for longer stretches of time and was trying to do more, they should have expected him to grow bored.

Next time, perhaps they should bring Héctor along from the start. It would save them some trouble.

And if Héctor started spending the day in the workshop with the rest of the family, then Imelda would be forced to spend time with him too. And the entire family agreed that the two of them needed to be around each other more.

Light snoring rose over the sounds of hammers and sewing machines. Felipe looked a little closer and realized that Héctor had lost the fight, dozing off on his perch. But as long as he didn't fall from the stool, it would probably be best to let him rest.

* * *

From the witness stand, Imelda could glare down at everyone quite effectively. Señor Chávez had apparently managed to talk some sense into his client, Ernesto fuming silently from his seat. The entire time that Señor Salinas made her explain the events of _Día de Muertos_ , which seemed like a waste of time since Julio already explained everything, Imelda's eyes never left the murderer. She didn't want Ernesto to miss a single expression on her face. She made certain that the man knew _exactly_ how she felt and that she wouldn't let him get away.

He would lose everything. His precious reputation would be in tatters. And the next several centuries of his afterlife would be spent imprisoned. Imelda would go through this legal mess for as long as possible if it ensured Ernesto was finally punished.

And as Señor Salinas finished his interrogation and Señor Chávez stepped forward, Imelda crossed her arms and stared the lawyer down. She wouldn't be intimidated by anyone. She wouldn't lose her temper and risk the case, but she wouldn't be back down either.

"We have already heard about the defendant's supposed confession," said Señor Chávez evenly, "from Officer Inglesias, _Doctora_ Espina, and the recording from the interrogation room."

"Then it isn't really a 'supposed' confession, is it?" she said dryly.

"Is it not true that the defendant received further injuries while in custody? From you?"

" _Sí_."

Once again, Señor Chávez visibly startled at one of their answers. He obviously didn't expect Imelda's calm and blunt response. But she saw no reason to deny her actions. She didn't regret hitting him that day and would do it again if given the chance.

Trying to recover from her answer, Señor Chávez asked, "So you admit it. Then is it not plausible that my client's confession could be the result of coercion rather than honesty? That the defendant, already injured by his encounter with _your_ alebrije, would have said _anything_ to escape further pain?"

"I doubt even you believe that," said Imelda. "The recording and your witnesses would prove that I never threatened Ernesto to make him talk. He did that on his own. He lost his temper and told me everything."

"And then _you_ lost your temper?"

"After Ernesto described in detail how he poisoned my husband, his best friend, and left him to die in an alleyway? And after he taunted me about Héctor nearly being forgotten?" she asked sharply, the anger rekindled as she remembered his words. But she reined it in before her emotions could escape. " _Sí_. I lost my temper. But only afterwards. His confession wasn't forced out of him by torture. He made it to hurt me." Imelda glared at Ernesto, wishing that she could take another swing at his oversized chin. "But he's hurt my family enough. He murdered my husband and nearly did the same to my great-great-grandson. He cannot be allowed to keep escaping the consequences of his crimes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Agitato" means almost exactly what it sounds like. It means to play the section of music in a way that sounds agitated. And in a chapter that involves Imelda being in the same room as Ernesto again, it seemed to fit the mood quite nicely.
> 
> Updates may slow for a bit. I have a vacation coming up, some real-life stuff, and a few other stories in need of attention. But don't worry. The wait shouldn't be too long for you.


	25. Leggierissimo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you've been waiting a while for this update. Things were a bit hectic for a while and I didn't get much writing done during my vacation. But I'm back and getting into the swing of things. Let's see how much progress I can make, shall we?

Her legs might be too weak to support her anymore, her eyesight might have faded, and her fingers might have stiffened from arthritis, but Coco would never be too old and frail to hold a baby. The dozing infant rested on her lap with a pillow to help support Coco's arm. She couldn't rock Socorro or lift her very high, but Coco could hold her.

She'd held so many babies over the years. Her children. Her grandchildren. Her great-grandchildren. Coco held so many precious family members when they were tiny and beautiful things, watching them eventually grow up.

It was what she loved to do. More than dancing or anything else. She loved holding the newest members of her growing family.

Coco would always volunteer to watch the children while everyone else worked in the workshop. She would take care of the babies, rocking and humming softly to them when no one else was listening. It was familiar. So familiar that there were moments where she was almost convinced that she was looking down at Victoria or Gloria instead.

"You know that even if that reporter takes all the credit, it'll still blow back on us eventually when everything goes public."

Coco glanced up as Berto's voice drifted in from the neighboring room. But he wasn't talking to her. The rest of the adults of the household were in there, the children either at school or napping like Manny and Benny. Luisa needed a break from caring for her newest child, which was why Coco was holding the little one.

But with everything that was going on, it was only naturally that the topic of Ernesto de la Cruz would come up.

"I know," said Enrique. "We all know. We've already talked about what could happen. But we can't keep quiet about this."

"And maybe we'll have a few people who will react badly to the news and lash out at us." Luisa kept her voice calm and reasonable as she spoke. "But most of it will be focused on the reporter rather than our family. He'll be the one in the spotlight. He'll be the one serving as a target. And our neighbors won't turn against us. Santa Cecilia is a good place filled with good people. And they won't tolerate strangers harassing one of their own."

Elena's voice sharp and uncompromising, she said, "And if anyone dares to say anything against our family or tries to drag us into the whole de la Cruz mess, I'll smack some sense into them. I won't let them speak about Papá Héctor with anything less than respect."

Coco didn't even have to be in the same room to know that Enrique, Berto, and Gloria exchanged looks at that remark and Franco would be shaking his head in bemusement. Elena was a wonderful daughter and always put family first, but it wasn't so long ago that she didn't consider the man as family. But Miguel's reveal about the stolen songs had shifted things. It was amazing to see how far she'd come in such a short span of time. A lifetime of hating him and yet Elena was now ready to defend his reputation.

It brought a smile to Coco's face.

"And anyone who tries to claim our family wants fame or that Ernesto de la Cruz _didn't_ steal Papá Héctor's songs or that my Mamá Coco is a liar," she continued, "will never own a Rivera shoe. We'll never sell so much as a shoelace to them."

Laughing lightly, Gloria said, "A fitting punishment, Mamá."

"No matter what happens when the news comes out, we'll face it together as a family," said Enrique.

If the conversation continued further, Coco didn't notice as a small whimper drew her focus back to her more immediate surroundings. Socorro's face scrunched up, the baby on the verge of waking up and crying. Coco recognized the uneasy expression far too easily.

" _Calmate_ ," cooed Coco gently. "You're all right. You don't need to cry."

Coco glanced around before remembering that she _didn't_ need to be sneaky. The music ban was no more. She didn't have to hide what she was doing.

"How about a song, Socorro? I know your brother sings to you," said Coco. "My papá used to sing this one to me."

Socorro gave a pitiful whimper. Coco pulled the baby closer.

"Remember me. Though I have to say goodbye."

* * *

Imelda slid off Pepita as she landed in the courtyard, her bones weary and her skull practically buzzing from everything that she'd listened to all day. The trial was tedious and frustrating. Even with a few bright points where Ernesto de la Cruz and the judge clashed, the entire day strained her patience. Keeping her mouth closed and remaining calm took nearly all of her willpower. But no matter how satisfying it would have been to throw a shoe at Ernesto from the witness stand, and Imelda _knew_ her aim was good enough to hit the target at that distance, she knew it would be far better in the long run for him to be locked away. She put up with the entire trial headache because it was necessary.

Julio stumbled off the alebrije, a little more clumsily than she did. He did an amazing job today, even if the entire experience clearly frayed his nerves. Julio was frazzled rather than frustrated like she was. But at least he was done. It took all day, but the judge, lawyers, and jury had heard enough from both of them. The trial may continue, but their role in it was over.

She could focus on more important things than Ernesto de la Cruz. Like her family.

Imelda glanced up at the sky, dark oranges and reds painting the horizon. It was growing late in the day. Everyone in the workshop would be finishing up. They might have made progress on the orders, but Imelda didn't get to work on a single stitch. It made her grit her teeth, knowing they'd worked so hard while she essentially did nothing more than talk.

She would just have to work harder tomorrow.

Taking a moment to scratch at Pepita's head in gratitude, Imelda led Julio into the workshop. The slower activity of everyone cleaning up for the day came to a stop. Her family waved in greetings, but kept their voices down.

"How did it go, Papá?" asked Victoria.

Shrugging, he said, "As well as could be expected. It certainly wasn't fun, but we're finished."

"The trial is over?" asked Rosita.

Imelda shook her head and said, "The trial continues, but without us. I doubt it'll last much longer though."

As she spoke, Imelda's gaze moved across the various family members and the ret of the workshop. She took in each detail carefully. And after a moment or two, her eyes settled on the unexpected addition.

Perched on a stool and leaning back against the structural post in the middle of the workshop, positioned where customers at the front might miss him and yet the family could all see him, Héctor dozed quietly. He wore his old clothes, cleaned and repaired. And while she could tell that his spine wouldn't thank him in the morning for sleeping in that particular pose, he looked completely peaceful and calm. The most movement she could see was the occasional lazy scratch around his fractured leg. She could no more consider disturbing him than she did when she found him sleeping against Pepita on the balcony.

"He managed to hobble his way down here earlier," said Oscar, noticing where her attention was. "He also tried to stay awake—"

"—waiting for you two to get back," Felipe continued. "We told him that you were running some errands. And he tried to stay awake, but—"

"—he was too worn out." Oscar rubbed his arm briefly. "We might want to start bringing Héctor down here in the morning. It'll keep him from being bored out of his skull—"

"—or trying to stumble places on his own. He can be kind of stubborn."

Imelda shook her head ruefully. Her brothers were right. It might be better to keep him close where they could keep an eye on him now that Héctor was getting his strength back. And Héctor was certainly stubborn. Imelda knew that ever since they met. Otherwise he would have never kept trying to gain her affection and they would have never been married.

"We'll discuss it with him," said Imelda. "For now, why don't you head into the house and see about dinner? You've been working hard all day. I'll finish tidying up the workshop."

Imelda tried her best to ignore the looks her brothers exchanged. Rosita's excited giggle was harder. But at least her family wasn't commenting on the fact that she was essentially chasing them out so she would be alone with her husband. Which she was immensely thankful for since she didn't have the patience to deal with that sort of nonsense after the day she'd had.

 _Ay_ , the legal system was nightmarishly slow. Even when everyone could clearly see the man's guilt.

The family quietly filed out, undoubtedly planning to turn dinner into another pseudo-date scenario for their matchmaking endeavors. Imelda waited a few minutes just to be safe, straightening up boxes of finished orders and other minor tasks to fill the time. Only after she was certain that no one else intended to disturb her did she turn her attention back to the sleeping figure.

While long experience ensured that she could figure out most people's sizes by sight, a proper measurement was necessary if she wanted to achiever a _perfect_ fit. And with Héctor literally sleeping in the workshop, there would never be a better opportunity. So with the electric lights buzzing quietly overhead and a notepad beside her to scratch down her observations, Imelda knelt beside the stool and studied her husband's dangling feet.

She kept her touches light as she worked. Not so much that she risked tickling him, but still gentle enough that it wouldn't wake him. And she was determined to finish her measurements with as little fuss as possible, quick and efficient. There was no reason to drag things out.

Though it was nice to feel how solid his bones were now. The metatarsals, the cuniform bones, the calcaneus… They lacked the complete fragileness that she remembered from _that morning_ , as if even the slightest contact would shatter the glowing figure to dust. Just like the mending fractures and his returning strength, it was a sign of his slow recovery.

And it reminded her of how she'd barely touched him since he woke up.

Imelda quietly wrote down her notes. Victoria was right about how she'd been avoiding him. Like a coward. She couldn't continue like that. Having Héctor in the workshop would help with that.

Though it would certainly be a new experience, one that she'd never imagined. What would it have been like if Ernesto never poisoned him? Héctor would have returned to them, her fledgling business just beginning. She figured that he'd return to performing in the plaza, though perhaps he would have tried to help with the shoes occasionally. With his income to supplement hers, the early years wouldn't have been so lean. And she could picture Héctor in the middle of everything. Watching over Coco when things were busy, playing songs while she worked to make the time pass, encouraging her to rest when she few weary…

Just… being part of their lives…

Imelda absently brushed the back of her hand across her cheekbones. The notes that she'd made should suffice. She gathered up her materials and quietly stored them away with the incomplete shoes.

She was making shoes. For Héctor.

Once, that idea would have been laughable. Now it was merely terrifying.

That thought produced a soft and broken chuckle. Imelda River feared nothing. Except the very likely possibility of her husband leaving once more.

She would deserve that. After everything that had happened, he would be well within his rights to leave and never see her again. He could decide to have nothing to do with her ever again. And it would be wrong to be upset if that turned out to be what he wanted.

But part of her hoped…

Maybe.

It was selfish and probably doomed to failure, but part of Imelda hoped that there might be a chance. That maybe, despite everything that had happened, Héctor might choose to stay. With their family. With her.

Part of her hoped that giving him a pair of Rivera shoes would show Héctor how sorry she was, that he belonged with the, and that he could put down roots and stay. Part of her hoped that the shoes would be enough to tell him everything that she needed to say to him. And everything that she should have told him a long time ago.

"I want you. I miss you," she said quietly, her voice lilting slightly almost as if she was singing a song. The words drifted through the workshop like a gentle refrain. "I love you. Please stay."

And with that, Imelda forced herself to return to her earlier chores. Straightening up the rest of the room afterwards went quickly. And when Imelda ran out of tasks to work on, she was left with only one thing to do.

"Héctor," she called, shaking his shoulder gently.

Groaning tiredly in protest, Héctor opened his eyes blearily. He blinked a few times as he straightened up, his spine popping slightly as his vertebrae realigned properly. Then his gaze settled on her.

"You're back?"

The drowsy confusion and delight in his voice sparked a small indulgent smile from her. Imelda kept any further reaction from slipping past though. Teasing him like how she once would have, like how they _both_ used to tease each other, might be a step too far.

"I waited for you," he continued. He stretched a little more, working out the stiffness. "I must have drifted off. _Lo siento_."

Taking a step back to give him room, Imelda said, "It's fine. Let's get you back to the house."

He nodded, reaching for his cane. Climbing to his feet took a moment or two, but Héctor managed to push himself up. But the effort upset his balance and nearly sent him tumbling to the ground.

And when his hand shot out to catch himself, Imelda grabbed it instinctively.

Héctor's eyes widened in surprise as he steadied himself. His fingers tightened briefly around hers, a soft expression overtaking his features. Then, as if remembering himself, Héctor reluctantly let go.

Part of Imelda wished that she'd held on a little longer. That she'd closed her fingers and kept his hand in her grip.

"Uh," he said awkwardly, the hand not holding his cane wrapping around his wrist, "did your errands go well?"

" _Sí_. I believe so." Offering her arm for support, Imelda said, "Rosita is probably working on something delicious for dinner. Shall we join them?"

Ducking his head slightly, Héctor smiled and answered shyly, "Sí."

His arm slipped around her elbow, a bashful and grateful expression overtaking his face. Between his cane and her support, he seemed relatively stable as they stepped out the door.

* * *

Jobs were scarce for the nearly forgotten.

Some of the people in Shantytown could manage for a while, if they were merely left off the _ofrendas_ and were still rather remembered. And if rumors didn't spread about their inability to cross the marigold bridge. Obvious they didn't have _great_ jobs since they were living down there instead of somewhere nicer, but some could manage. But once their bones began to dull and their facial markings began to fade, the opportunities seemed to disappear.

Part of it was practical. Weakening strength and fragile bones made any type of hard labor dangerous. Both to themselves and others. Any job that required dealing with the public would never work because everyone felt uncomfortable around the nearly forgotten, people like that grim reminders of how limited everyone's time truly. Well-remembered skeletons had a tendency to avoid the nearly forgotten like the living might avoid those who carry plague and disease. Having someone nearly forgotten in a public role would cause fewer customers to approach and the business would suffer. And who would wish to employ someone who could easily not show up one morning without warning, disappearing into golden dust?

There were a few jobs available though. Some were offered by open-minded and charitable people who wanted to help, who kept in mind that it wasn't a fate anyone could escape permanently. Others were unsavory or dangerous jobs that no one else would accept, the pay usually a mere pittance. But a few jobs… Well, people didn't always care who provided the services if they were in the right place and they were good enough.

Like music.

Carlos had been pursuing that particular route a lot recently. He'd been lurking in the various markets, plazas, and around the different fountains scattered through the Land of the Dead. When a musician played for money in public, people paid more attention to the music than the one playing it.

So he'd spent the last few weeks earning funds by playing songs on his unconventional violin. At first, it was exhausting to wander all over the city. Climbing up and down the towers on a regular basis wasn't exactly easy for someone on the verge of being forgotten, even when he snuck rides on some of the trolleys and such.

He wasn't certain how Cousin Héctor managed it, the skeleton wandering all over to help out his friends and doing favors during the majority of the year until _Día de Muertos_ came around again. Cousin Héctor was a great friend and could be depended on completely whenever he wasn't wrapped up in his next bridge-crossing attempt.

Traveling that much was exhausting. But the last few days had seemed easier than before. Carlos figured he must be getting used to it. He'd felt practically spry today.

His efforts were producing a nice tidy profit, but it was still slow-going. And it kept him away more than expected. He wasn't even there when Victoria came by unexpectedly. He didn't get to see her reaction when she received her paper flower.

Carlos smiled as he peered through the windows of tiny cluttered shops, his violin tucked under his arm. Victoria wasn't like anyone else. She looked beautiful, her dark hair smoothed into a neat bun and her glasses framing warm eyes. But it wasn't merely her face. Her calm and controlled demeanor meant that she wouldn't laugh politely at his words when she didn't mean it. Any indulgent smile, quiet chuckle, warm smile, or smart remark from her would always be authentic.

He also appreciated her subtle facial expressions, her confident and dignified posture, and even her body language. Everything about her was attractive, not just her face.

Though, ironically enough, she shared a variety of gestures with Cousin Héctor, even if the man had spent so long in Shantytown rather than with his family.

He liked Victoria. Carlos wasn't afraid to admit it. He liked speaking with her and seeing her when she came to visit. He enjoyed spending time with her. She was beautiful, smart, and quick-witted. And perhaps she wasn't as expressive with her feelings as some women, but those that she shared subtly seemed more honest. He liked her and Carlos planned to show her how much.

Carlos knew that he didn't have much to offer a lovely _señorita_ like her. No matter how surprisingly energetic that he might feel at the moment, Carlos knew that he remained nearly forgotten. Not as far gone as some, but no one was putting him on an _ofrenda_. Both his resources and time were limited. But she was worth the effort. A handcrafted paper flower might be a small gesture, but it was certainly a start. And he was already working on something better.

He'd checked numerous second-hand stores. They were more likely to have what he was looking for at a price that he could manage _and_ wouldn't have too many people staring at him suspiciously. Since everyone knew that people left off of _ofrendas_ rarely had anything and wouldn't be able to afford much, they tended to be watched closely in nicer stores. Cheaper second-hand stores were more manageable and less concerned that someone would steal their various knickknacks or hand-me-down clothes.

Carlos had found a few possibilities so far, but he was still searching. He wanted it to be perfect. Serenading her with sweet music would be easier, but that wouldn't suit Victoria. Tía Rosita gave him advice when it came to her and a wise man would heed her words.

He paused at a window, something catching his eye. A pale shirt, lightly used and well-kept, hung in plain view with a price tag tied on. The style was simple and not completely dissimilar to the fashions that were around during his life. Past that were a few other outfits. All of them cheap, clean, and in good condition.

Carlos looked down at his own clothes. They weren't complete rags, but they were certainly threadbare in places. They would work for normal daily life. But for what he had in mind, perhaps he needed something a bit nicer. Victoria was worth the effort. Cleaning himself up and dressing a little better would be a good idea. And he _did_ have a little money to spare…

A new shirt and pants would be reasonable. He would simply stash them in his home and not wear them until it was time, ensuring that they stayed clean and in good condition until then. If they didn't fit perfectly, Tía Gabriela and the other would help hem the pants and take in the seams.

But no shoes. Victoria was making him a pair and he wouldn't insult her by wearing lesser quality.

Decision made, Carlos shifted his grip on the violin tucked under his arm and slipped inside. The bell on the door jingled softly and the skeleton behind the counter briefly glanced up. But apparently judging Carlos to be harmless, she quickly returned to her newspaper.

It wasn't a large building, but it was full. A few racks of clothes filled the middle space with a few chosen pieces hanging in the window, but the walls were lined with shelves and cardboard boxes filled with assorted accessories. There didn't seem to be much rhyme or reason why the objects were arranged the way that they were. But everything bore a price tag carefully tied on. On one of the higher shelves rested an old radio. A slight amount of static crackled through the speakers, but it sounded mostly fine.

" _The media blackout surrounding the de la Cruz trial remains in place and limits the amount of information shared with the public_ ," announced the reporter politely from the radio, " _but we have confirmed that members of the unidentified living child's family were called as witnesses. The living child in question is the one from the events of last_ Día de Muertos _and specifically from the Sunrise Spectacular incident that led to authorities taking Señor Ernesto de la Cruz into custody afterwards. Señor de la Cruz is currently facing the charges of Assault on a Minor, Assault and Attempted Murder of the Living, and Murder in Life Without Conviction. We will keep you updated as more information becomes available._ "

As a song followed the news report, Carlos shook his head and muttered, "It's men like that who give musicians a bad name."

"I saw the footage from that morning," said the store owner, glancing up from her newspaper as Carlos looked over the available second-hand clothes. "It's strange. He'd always seemed so nice and charming. The kind of celebrity that you could truly look up to. And then he goes and tries to kill some kid? And he might have killed someone in life?" She shook her head. "You just never can tell sometimes."

Carlos made a quiet sound of acknowledgement as he selected a pair of pants to go with the pale shirt. Both looked decent, were in good condition, and were cheap enough for him to manage. From there, he moved to a cardboard box of assorted objects and started digging.

Perhaps he would find something nice for Victoria among the random junk. Treasure could lurk in the most unexpected places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit it. Carlos has definitely grown on me a bit. I know I've mentioned it before, but he was really not supposed to have this much screen time in my original plan. But I like him and my readers seem to enjoy his presence.
> 
> Let's hope things go smoothly for him. But I make no promises…
> 
> The musical term "leggierissimo" means to play very lightly and delicately. Kind of how you might, for example, handle a little baby…


	26. Bellicoso

Ever since his first visit to the workshop, a rather embarrassing trip in hindsight, Héctor found himself down there more often. Every morning, the twins or Rosita would show up to help him down the stairs and across the courtyard. Once inside, Héctor would park himself on his stool and watch the family at work.

He liked it, spending time with all of them. From his central vantage point, he could see everything. He watched every step of the shoe-making process carefully, listening to their chatter and the rhythmic work. Occasionally the customers who came in would notice him, staring at his still-discolored bones and sometimes whispering, but he was normally tucked away enough to avoid attention. Héctor mostly appreciated spending time outside of that room and among other people.

But it was more than that. The entire Rivera family fit so harmoniously together as they worked on the shoe orders. Like puzzle pieces slotting together. They even had a bit of a motto about how well their skills fit together.

A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.

Héctor occasionally stared at their interactions with awe and longing. He'd wanted to be with them for decades, to belong and to be part of the family again. He wanted to fit together with them.

He knew it would take work though. They had decades together and it many ways, he was the newcomer. An outsider. He barely counted as a Rivera.

After all, a Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.

He wanted to belong with his family and he knew that there was only a limited window of opportunity before this fragile arrangement shattered like glass. Nothing good ever lasted. He always ruined it. But this time, he would find a way to hold on. He would do whatever he could to make it work.

He waited, watching how they worked. Every small act was carefully observed. He asked subtle questions. Héctor kept collecting the thin threads of information.

And eventually, opportunity struck. Imelda left early one afternoon to run a few errands for the business. She would see right through him if he tried anything, so that was essential. And when the end of the work day rolled around and everyone started preparing to retire to the house to prepare for dinner, Héctor stayed behind with the excuse that he wanted to rest a little before heading inside. He was doing better but his energy levels still varied enough for them to believe it.

But that… that was a lie. And he would apologize for that later.

Taking a few discarded scraps of leather, Héctor knew he wouldn't be able to make an actual shoe yet. But he could try out the different techniques. He could experiment and figure this out. He'd watched the others work and he could do some basic repairs to clothes. How hard could it be?

Apparently _very_ hard.

Héctor scowled at the tangled and uneven thing in his hands. He couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. He was doing what he'd seen the various family members doing. He didn't expect perfection, but it should have been better than what he was producing.

It should have been better. He _needed_ to be better.

A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.

How long could he depend on pity to let him stay? How long until everything began to unravel and he lost it all again? He needed to find a way so he could stay. He needed a way to make certain they would still want him.

He couldn't lose all of them. He couldn't go back to having Imelda hate him. He needed to keep at least a _little_ acceptance.

Héctor would be fine even if it was only tiny fragments of contact, even if it would hurt initially to go back after spending so much time with everyone. He would accept it. But he couldn't go back to _nothing_.

A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.

He needed to figure this out. He needed to make this work. He needed to fit in with them and belong, which meant getting these two pieces of leather together in a way that actually _worked_. Everyone in the family made shoes and if he couldn't even do what appeared to be pretty basic, then how long would they put up with him? He needed to learn.

A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.

He was healing. His energy was returning. He could walk most of the way from the upstairs bedroom to the workshop only using his cane by now, the twins or Rosita mostly there just in case. The pity and feeling of obligation wouldn't be enough to let him stay much longer. He needed to give them a reason to let him stay.

Good things didn't last. Anything good in his existence would always fade, would be snatched away, or would end up ruined. And it was usually his fault.

Or apparently Ernesto's.

Héctor wouldn't let this chance slip through his fingers. He was going to work hard.

A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through.

He wouldn't lose this. He couldn't. He needed this to work. It would work. It would. It _would_.

Needle slipping off the thick leather completely, the sharp point jammed unexpectedly between the two bones of his phalange. And even without flesh, the rough scratch against calcium sent pain jolting through his finger. Yelping in pain, Héctor dropped the entire mess on the counter and waved the injured hand in the air.

Then, as the sharp pain quickly faded, Héctor glared down at the tangled leather disaster and couldn't see anything worth salvaging. Dumb, dumb, _dumb_ —

" _Gah_!" he yelled in frustration, grabbing the disaster and throwing it against the far wall. "Why isn't this _working_?"

"Because working with leather is different than working with cloth."

Héctor jolted in surprise, his head nearly spinning completely around on his vertebrae and probably would have a few months ago. Standing behind him with her arms politely folded, Victoria stared at him through her glasses. His shoulders hunched up as it began to sink in what she'd witnessed.

" _Lo siento_ ," he said, his eyes dropping.

"Don't be," said Victoria, stepping a little closer. "I was beginning to think you didn't have any temper. Every time that one of us talks to you, you act like we'll knock your skull off if you say the wrong thing. Let alone show a single negative emotion. You've practically been walking on eggshells. But I knew that Mamá Imelda wouldn't have married someone without a spine."

Chuckling uneasily, Héctor said, "Well, you've seen me without a shirt, so you know I have a spine."

Victoria continued to stare at him with an unimpressed expression. After a moment, she walked over and sat down on the edge of the workstation.

"You know that you _are_ allowed to be angry sometimes, right?"

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just… a little frustrated."

"As I gathered from you throwing around leather scraps a moment ago," said Victoria dryly. "But you _are_ allowed to be angry. None of us would blame you for it."

Gesturing at his surroundings, Héctor said, "I get to know all of you. I got to meet Miguel. Imelda doesn't seem to hate me completely. I'm not being forgotten anymore. Why should I be angry?"

"Because your best friend murdered you," she said bluntly, the unexpected response knocking the wind out of him. "Someone that you trusted betrayed you and you have only recently learned about it. Ernesto de la Cruz murdered you because you tried to go home to your family. You didn't get to see your daughter grow up. I didn't get to have you as an _abuelo_ in life. He took you away from everyone who loved you or could have loved you someday because he was selfish. It was cruel and unfair. It hurt everyone for generations. He murdered you, allowed your family to believe that you abandoned them, and it is perfectly understandable for you to be upset about it. And with everything that's happened since _Día de Muertos_ , I don't think you've had the time to deal with how you feel about all of that."

With each calm and even word from Victoria, carefully laying out every thought that he'd been trying to avoid, Héctor felt himself being dragged back to that night in Ernesto's mansion. That night when he realized that everything that he assumed to be bad luck and poor choices were actually the result of malicious forethought. The result of a betrayal. And as he remembered that moment of horrified realization, Héctor's breathing began to speed up and his hands began to subconsciously curl into fists.

"It wasn't fair," he said quietly, his eyes locked on the floor. "He was my best friend. We were practically brothers."

"And you're allowed to be angry about it. If you want to vent or yell, now would be the time. We're alone and I won't judge you."

He shouldn't. He should just calm down and head into the house with Victoria. It wouldn't do him any good. It wasn't like he could change what happened.

But when he opened his mouth to make the suggestion, different words started spilling out.

"He was my best friend. We grew up together. And he _poisoned_ me? Ernesto poisoned me and stole my songs. _Coco's_ song. And he didn't tell Imelda anything. He could have told them I was dead. He could have done that much. But he didn't." His fists shook slightly as he spoke, his voice tense and strained. "How could he? How could he _do_ that to me? After everything that we went through together, how could Ernesto do that? How could he turn against me so easily? Did our friendship mean _nothing_?"

Héctor shook slightly, his breathing fast and ragged. He wasn't shouting, but there was a sharp edge. The poison was long since gone, part of him could still feel the burning hurt.

"I just wanted to go _home_. I never should have left and I've paid for that mistake every single day since. But _why_? Why did he have to kill me? He didn't need me or my songs. I know he could have been successful. And if he asked, I would have give him songs. I would have written a hundred songs for him if I could have stayed with my family. He just needed to ask. He didn't have to… to _kill_ me. Or try to kill Miguel. Or any of those things. Ernesto didn't have to do any of it. It wasn't fair. He took everything from me. It _wasn't fair_."

How long had it been since he admitted the unfairness of it all? _Decades_? Not since those early days of death, when he still struggled to accept what happened and that his wife and daughter were completely out of his reach.

"It wasn't fair. Ernesto killed me and then I spent my entire afterlife trying to see my family. I just wanted to see my wife and daughter. I just wanted to cross that dumb bridge and go _home_. But it never _worked_. It never…"

Both hands reached up to grab his head roughly, dragging his hat down his face before he just tossed it to the floor in frustration. Almost a century's worth of frustration.

"And what did I do? What did I do to make her think— to make her think that I would abandon my girls? What did I say or do to make my wife not trust me? To make her think that I didn't love them? What did I do…?"

He trailed off, eyes widening. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have said any of it.

" _Lo siento_ ," he said, his voice a horrified whisper. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did," said Victoria. "You're allowed to be angry at Ernesto. You're allowed to be upset about what happened. You're even allowed to be hurt by what Mamá Imelda did. I love and respect her, but Mamá Imelda isn't perfect. We won't blame you for being angry, upset, or hurt for very good reasons."

He didn't say a word, his head bowed. He couldn't look at her. Not after what just came tumbling out of his mouth. He shouldn't have said that. He messed up. He left Imelda and Coco alone. He didn't have any right to be upset. It was his mistake.

Victoria quietly stood back up and reached down to retrieve his hat from the floor. She handed it back to him, acting like he didn't throw it like a toddler having a tantrum. Or like he didn't say any of those things about Imelda that he shouldn't have.

"You don't have to make shoes to be part of this family. Franco didn't know how to make shoes when he met Elena," continued Victoria calmly. "His first few attempts were bad enough that I honestly thought that he would never learn. And if he didn't, we would have managed somehow because he loved Elena. But we taught him and he got better." Placing a hand on his shoulder, she said, "You don't _have_ to make shoes. But if you _want_ to learn, we would be happy to teach you. You need only ask, Papá Héctor."

He stiffened, unable to breathe for a moment as her words sank in. Papá Héctor. She called him "Papá Héctor."

When he heard it from Miguel, dawn nearly upon them and his strength slipping away, he could appreciate the term of affection properly. But the words from the boy still managed to warm part of even then. And hearing it from Victoria now, and knowing what it meant for her to call him that after a lifetime of hating him…

Héctor smiled at her.

"I think I would like that… _Míja_."

* * *

It was a rather atypical family meeting.

Rosa and Abel had taken charge of the twins at their parents' suggestion. They took their younger brothers down to the plaza as a distraction, sibling responsibility winning out over their immense curiosity.

Miguel, on the other hand, couldn't be dissuaded and Coco asked for him to stay. She knew that he deserved to be there after everything. He'd done so much. Only she knew how much.

He and Coco were positioned under the tree in the courtyard. The rest of the Rivera adults were spread out a bit more, listening carefully to the man with his notepad and a recorder. They'd welcomed the man in, the librarian having directed him to the right home just in case he'd forgotten the way since he moved.

Though Coco wished that her daughter would stop being so hostile to the man.

"Are you accusing us of _faking_ my mamá's collection of letters?"

"No, _Doña_ ," said Martín. He was sitting on the old covered well, pencil in hand. "I believe you and your family. My prima wouldn't have contacted me if she didn't believe your story was true. And there will be others who believe your words. But when this story breaks there will be those who will try to discredit you. They won't want to accept the truth. Especially those who might lose money with the destruction of Ernesto de la Cruz's legacy. Authenticating the age of those letters is merely a way of getting ahead of their possible arguments. Having proof they aren't forgeries will prevent later problems."

"If it keeps people from calling our family liars, surely it isn't that great of an inconvenience," Franco said.

Crossing her arms stubbornly, Elena said, "Fine. It'll save me some trouble of knocking sense into all of them."

"I wish we could stay out of this completely," said Gloria.

"I know. And I am trying to keep you away from the spotlight as much as possible," said Martín. "But I need to make certain that I have all the sources properly cited and proven as reliable. That means authenticating the letters. And it would make the story stronger if I can get at least a small quote from the family. Nothing major and certainly not the focus of the piece, but it would look more suspicious if I didn't contact you. It might give the impression that there is something to hide."

Raising a hand, Miguel said, "I could talk to you."

Shouts of protest rose up from around the courtyard. Coco watched her daughter, her son-in-law, and her grandchildren descend on the boy and inform him in no uncertain terms that Miguel would not be allowed to put himself in the line of fire like that. Honestly, Coco had to agree. She knew that Ernesto de la Cruz's fans would try to defend the man's name and she didn't want Miguel to earn their ire.

"I know that you want to help, _Míjo_ ," said Enrique. "But I really don't think that having you give a quote to the magazine or newspaper or whoever will be publishing this would be a good idea. You've done enough. You're the one who brought us to this point."

"I'll talk to him," Coco said.

Her words abruptly silenced everyone. Her entire family stared at her. Elena even stepped over and patted her hand gently.

"Mamá," she said softly.

"Señor Campos," continued Coco. "Would the story of Ernesto de la Cruz and Papá be better if you spoke to someone who knew them in life?"

He nodded slowly and said, " _Sí_. And there are not many people left who could give a first-hand account."

"Mamá Coco, are you certain that's a good idea?" Berto asked. "It sounds a little stressful."

"And you were just a little girl back then and your memory isn't always the best anymore," said Elena.

Coco smiled and patted Elena's hand reassuringly. Her family wanted to take care of her and she certainly understood their concerns. But she knew what she was doing. She was the only one who could do this.

Besides, if those Ernesto de la Cruz fans got upset, what was the worst they could do to an old woman like her? She would be out of their reach soon enough.

"I want to do this, Míja. I need to do this," said Coco firmly. "I will talk to Señor Martín Pérez-López Campos. I give him a proper interview for his article. I will tell him the story of Papá, Mamá, and the rest of my family."

"If you're willing to do this, Señora Rivera," Martín said slowly, "I think the article will be all the stronger for it. A first-hand account and these other primary sources will make a compelling argument and your recollection will provide an emotional anchor at the center of the story. It'll help win the hearts and minds of the readers."

Nodding, Coco said, "And then the people will know and remember the truth. They'll remember Papá as a great musician, a wonderful papá and husband, and a good man."

Staring at Coco for a few moments, Elena's wary expression slowly relaxed. She eventually gave a small smile.

"If this is what you want, then so be it. We'll support you, Mamá." She gave a sharp look at Martín. "But if you upset her with this interview, the two of us will have words, _Señor_."

" _Mamá_ ," said Enrique.

"What? I said 'words.' Only words, _Míjo_."

* * *

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor. For the crimes of Assault on a Minor, Assault on the Living, Attempted Murder of the Living, and Murder in Life Without Conviction, we find the defendant, Señor Ernesto de la Cruz, guilty on all charges. We would also recommend that the severity of these crimes and the defendant's continued contempt in court should warrant the maximum sentence possible for his crimes."

"This is an _outrage_! How dare you? Do you know who I am?"

"Silence, Señor de la Cruz. I _will_ have order in my court. You have not made it difficult to reach a decision on your sentencing during these proceedings. I sentence you to pay restitution for your crimes in the form of all your property, personal belongings, and all _ofrenda_ offerings both past and future, which will be distributed as a form of charity at the request of the Rivera family. Furthermore, you are also sentenced to four centuries imprisonment, with parole possible in two hundred fifty years."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "bellicoso" means "warlike" or "aggressive." And this chapter has our sweet Héctor finally express some of his frustration and anger with everything that happened to him. He finally gets to vent a little. So while it isn't quite warlike or aggressive, Héctor at least admits that he's upset.


	27. Affannato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting closer and closer to the end of things. It feels strange to realize how far we've come since I started. I'm tying up all the loose ends gradually. But it isn't over quite yet.

"And Mamá Lucía said that Primo Carlos could make even the worst instrument sound amazing."

Miguel nodded absently as Tomás spoke. He listened since he knew how important it was to remember their ancestors, but most of his attention was on subjects other than his classmate or the clock above their heads steadily ticking towards the start of the school day. Subjects far closer to home.

It felt strange to realize that they were close to end. That all his work and research had come to this. Mamá Coco's interview would be published any day now. Her interview and the rest of the research would on full display, ready for the world to read. And while it might start in a single magazine, but Señor Campos assured them that it would likely be reprinted in various newspapers, other magazines, and all over the internet before it was over. The truth would come out. People would know about Ernesto's crimes. Or at least _some_ of his crimes. And they would know about Papá Héctor. Miguel would be able to talk about how amazing he was, how talented he was, and how he wrote all those songs that people loved.

And people would know his story. Shared by Mamá Coco, someone who knew him in life. Everyone who read that interview would remember Papá Héctor. The idea was brilliant. She seemed so proud of herself afterwards, even if she also seemed completely exhausted and Abuelita helped settle her into bed to rest once she was finished.

The article would be out soon and that would bring changes. It already was. The guitar was returned to town hall, his papá doing it anonymously. Not wanting to risk anyone else stealing "Ernesto's" guitar, they were keeping it there until they could change all the locks and the executors of the de la Cruz estate were satisfied that the crypt was safe again. Of course, once the article was published, the Rivera family could try claiming it for themselves.

Until then, Miguel could practice songs on the instrument that he received for the holidays. It wasn't as fancy as Papá Héctor's guitar, but it seemed nice. Just like Rosa's new violin and Abel's accordian.

Abuelita really knew how to offer an apology.

He'd done everything that he could. Miguel could accept that. Whether or not people believed the truth, he'd done everything possible to unravel Ernesto's legacy of lies. And Papá Héctor would be remembered. He was safe. Miguel actually made it happen. Him and Mamá Coco.

Too bad that he couldn't tell Papá Héctor about everything. Not until he died.

Frowning briefly as he tapped his pencil on the edge of his desk and listened absently to Tomás talk about his long-dead _primo_ , an idea started blooming at the back of his mind. Yes, he wouldn't be able to directly talk to his dead relatives. But maybe he could communicate another way. Maybe a letter?

But how? He could try tying one to Dante and see if he could carry it across the same way he brought the jacket back. He _was_ an alebrije. But it could get lost or covered in drool. The letter would be too important to risk it. Not until he was sure the system would work.

He could leave it on the _ofrenda_ , but that would mean waiting months. Several months. And Papá Héctor and everyone deserved to find out sooner that Ernesto's lies were coming apart. Leaving a letter on the _ofrenda_ would work, but Miguel wished that he could find a better option.

Then he remembered Papá Héctor, who never got the chance to cross the Marigold Bridge, holding a _foto_ of his smiling face. A _foto_ that he must have brought with him somehow. And no matter how it made his stomach twist since it made him admit how time was running out for someone else that he loved, it gave Miguel an idea.

Before he could pursue the idea any further however, the bell rang and signaled the start of the school day.

* * *

Imelda smiled as she worked, glancing around the workshop occasionally. She loved this. She loved working on shoes, surrounded by her family.

And that included a part of her family that she once thought was gone forever.

Currently sitting next to Rosita as she worked, watching closely from his perch on this stool, Héctor seemed to be firmly on the mend by now. He used the cane still to keep his weight off the healing leg and to occasionally steady himself, but he could make it from the upstairs bedroom down to the workshop without help. His endurance and energy were returning. He might not be completely back to normal. She certainly didn't think he was up to a sprint across the entire Land of the Dead, which was the only thing that she could figure that he and Miguel did that night to cover that much ground. But after months, he was nearly recovered.

True, things weren't perfect. Even as Héctor seemed to grow closer to the rest of the family, hesitantly asking questions as he sat next to a different member each day and would eat dinner at the table in the evening, there was a caution to his behavior that seemed foreign to how she remembered him. He watched his words, neatly avoiding certain topics or deflecting with a seemingly-casual remark. She remembered him being such a tactile person and she could occasionally catch glimpses of him stopping himself from reaching out, but he didn't initiate contact anymore. He waited, letting someone else take the lead. Like he was walking on eggshells around them, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. Or maybe just afraid of _her_.

And despite her resolve to stop being a coward, she couldn't banish her own nerves.

It shouldn't be this hard. But there was too much history. And too much guilt. Even now her emotions were a mess when it came to her husband. She didn't know how to approach him, to find out if he would stay despite having every reason to leave now that he was nearly healed. Thinking about it made her feel vulnerable and weak, two things that she refused to be.

But the shoes were nearly complete. Perhaps they would be enough to bridge the gap between the two of them, a gap created by nearly a century of separation, decades of misunderstandings and pain on both sides, and a lack of trust for idiotic reasons on her end. Shoes held her family together when they were at their weakest. Shoes bound them together and took care of her family. She hoped that shoes would be enough this time. She hoped that if she put enough love and attention into these shoes, it would help repair the damage. It was all that she could come up with.

Maybe it would be enough. Maybe he would stay. Despite everything that she did and everything that he went through, maybe he would stay. Maybe… maybe they could repair a few fragments of their relationship after all. She was trying to hope.

And that hope and being surrounded by her family was enough for now. It was enough to keep her smiling.

The familiar and soothing sounds of the workshop, everyone working on orders and chatting casually with one another, often became comfortable background noise. She barely noticed it a times unless something shifted. So while the sound was quiet, the bell ringing as the door facing the street opened was enough to make her head snap up.

Three skeletons walked in, looking a little uncomfortable and giving every impression of not being certain that they were welcome. They weren't the typical customers who frequented the shop. Their clothes looked cheap and second-hand, but clean and in decent condition. Like they were trying to look their best. But two of them were already wearing shoes that Imelda instantly recognized as Rivera quality, though one of them was barefoot.

And none of this was enough to hide the faded facial markings and the dull shade of their bones.

Nearly forgotten.

"Tía Gabriela?" Rosita dropped her current project and abandoned her workstation, startling Héctor into looking up. "Primo Juan? And Tío Carlos? I almost didn't recognize you without your violin." Scooping each of them up in a hug, she asked, "What are you doing here? You didn't have to walk all the way here."

They weren't relatives of Imelda. Not even distant ones, people she hadn't spoken to since her parents cut her off from the family. And yet Rosita certainly knew them. She addressed them as _tía, tío_ , and _primo_. Were any of them at Julio and Coco's wedding? Imelda didn't recognize them at all.

"Don't worry about me," assured Gabriela. "Primo Juan is perfectly capable of helping an old woman up these towers. Not to mention how spry Tío Carlos has been acting lately." She gestured at one of the men beside her, the one staring mostly at Victoria. "It was about time that we visited you for a change."

While Imelda tried her best to figure out if they were distant relatives of Rosita and Julio, movement caught her eye. Héctor was on his feet. A confused and worried frown was quickly replaced by a broad and carefree grin, one that slipped into place with practiced ease.

"Hey," he said with a casual tone. "Look at all three of you. The last few months have been good to you. And is that a new dress, Tía Gabriela?"

"Cousin Héctor," greeted Gabriela. "Prima Victoria told us that you were doing better. Up on your feet and everything."

"They… They've been visiting?" he said, his expression briefly becoming anxious before he could recover.

"Regularly," said Juan. Gesturing towards his feet, he explained, "She and Tía Rosita have been bringing down orders of shoes to Shantytown since _Día de Muertos_. We told them that they didn't have to, but they've been stubborn." Chuckling slightly, he said, "Kind of like you and the bridge, really. But we've enjoyed having them come by. We just wanted to save them the trip this time."

Still staring at Victoria, Carlos said, "Especially since my shoes never seem to make it down there. Another man might have his feelings hurt by now."

Victoria gave him a mildly amused look before shaking her head and stepping away from her workstation. She started going through the stack of boxes of completed ordered, reading the labels carefully.

They weren't related to Rosita or Julio. Imelda came to that realization as she, Oscar, Felipe, and Julio watched the reunion silently. Nor were they related to Héctor. She knew for a fact that he was an orphan and never knew anything about his family. They weren't technically related to any of them.

But they knew Héctor. And all of them were on the verge of being forgotten, their bones different shades of the dull and yellowing color. Imelda barely knew anything about them. But she was able to put together some of the pieces from how they were interacting and addressing each other. They… They'd formed a group together, existing on the fringes.

It was a family.

In some ways, it hurt to know that Héctor had another family. Not another wife or a child as she'd imagined during the darker days of the past few decades, but what seemed to be adopted _tíos_ and _primos_. The feeling of being replaced kept prickling her. But that wasn't fair. And honestly, what did she expect when she continuously drove him away? It was better that he wasn't alone all that time.

But it meant that if he chose to leave, Héctor had something to return to. He had an adoptive family who didn't spend decades trying to forget him.

"What have I missed? Did Prima Verónica ever get her roof fixed?" asked Héctor, his carefree grin settling back in place.

Returning with his own smile, Juan said, "You missed plenty."

"A few new faces arrived," said Gabriela, "and a few old faces are gone now." Imelda felt the mood darken briefly, the faded skeletons sharing a moment of loss before pushing past it. "But the biggest changes came from the ruling on the de la Cruz trial."

" _Wait_. Wait, wait, wait. Wa-wait, wait," Héctor stammered. "Wait… There was a trial?"

Maybe they should have mentioned it to him sooner. Or at all. But in her defense, they'd been busy and discussing Ernesto wasn't something that Imelda was eager to do.

Taking a small step forward, Imelda said, "Of course there was a trial. Did you think that he would get away with everything once the truth came out? Everyone knows what Ernesto did and he is paying for his crimes. Far too late in my opinion, but it is finally happening. He's going to be locked away for a very long time."

"Not to mention that his belongings have been donated to all of us," said Gabriela.

"Wait, _what_?" Héctor yelped.

"It sounded like a good idea at the time," said Julio with a shrug.

"Several of us have been working on the best way to deal with all of it," continued Gabriela. "Some of it we're keeping, but most of it is being sold."

"I voted on everyone moving into his giant mansion, but apparently everyone else wanted to be _practical_ rather than do the _fun_ option," Carlos said.

"You would have grown tired of the ivory tower eventually," said Victoria dryly as she shook her head at his words, though Imelda noticed a subtle smile on her granddaughter's face.

"The man might have been a thief, a liar, and a murderer, but he had mountains of offerings," said Gabriela. "Ernesto was rich enough that we bought and are renovating several older buildings into apartments while still having enough to give everyone down there clothes, food, and so on."

"I think the old owners of those buildings nearly died again when they realized _we_ were the ones buying the properties." Carlos chuckled. "They didn't expect us to have anything close to enough."

Smiling, Gabriela said, "It could last us quite a while if we're careful. _Centuries_. And apparently his future offerings also go to us. Honestly, it might be nice to sleep somewhere where the walls aren't on the verge of falling on windy nights."

"As if we would let those walls fall on you," Héctor said with a casual grin.

_Casual._

He wasn't acting like he was on guard, chatting and exchanging gossip with the nearly-forgotten skeletons. Héctor seemed relaxed. He seemed happy. Standing near them, she could see how much whiter his bones were now and how much brighter his facial markings seemed in comparison. But even with those improvements, Héctor seemed to fit in with them perfectly.

Casual. Relaxed. Happy.

Everything that he didn't seem to be around her.

Imelda and the rest of the family watched quietly as the yellowed skeletons caught up with each other. Other than Rosita chiming in occasionally when they mentioned someone she knew, they couldn't contribute much. Most of the Riveras were left in awkward silence.

What could she say anyway? Especially whenever one of them mentioned a name and she would see a flicker of grief, telling her without words that it was someone that they'd lost. Someone who experienced the Final Death. Even when the grief was quickly replaced with the cheerful reminiscing from before, she could tell how much it hurt them.

How many faces had they seen disappear in flashes of golden light? And with the exception of Héctor, all of them would soon follow the same fate. None of them would be saved at the last minute because of a rebellious, stubborn, wonderful great-great-grandson getting himself cursed. They would soon be gone. That thought made something in her chest twist sharply in pity.

After watching Héctor collapsing in colorful spasms before nearly slipping away, after three days of waiting to see if the bright and unnatural light would snatch him away completely, Imelda couldn't bear the idea of witnessing something like that again.

"Oh, I can't believe I nearly forgot," said Gabriela abruptly. She smacked Juan's arm and said, "Give Cousin Héctor the thing we brought."

Reaching over his shoulder and drawing Imelda's attention to something that she missed earlier, Juan pulled a wrapped package from where it was tied to his back. Even covered in brown paper and tied with twine, Imelda recognized the familiar shape. And judging by the way Héctor's eyes widened, he knew what it was too.

"A guitar?" he asked quietly.

"Ernesto had hundreds of them just sitting around and gathering dust. We sold most of them, but a few of the more musical _primos_ grabbed a couple," said Carlos. "We figured that you deserve one too."

"Just in case," Juan added. "Things change, after all."

Juan held the instrument out to him. And while Héctor took a small step forward, he didn't reach out to take it or even try to unwrap the guitar for a better look. The hesitation had returned.

And that was when Imelda realized another change. In the months since _Día de Muertos_ , she hadn't heard Héctor hum, sing, or even tap out a rhythm. He used to always have a song going. Music was a part of him. And yet other than his fingers twitching in his sleep as if he was playing a guitar, Héctor hadn't shown a hint of music.

Did he think that the music ban was still in place even after she sang on stage? Was he afraid of how she would react?

She didn't want that. She missed the sound of Héctor playing the guitar. And she missed the sound of his singing.

"Here it is," said Victoria, walking back over with a box in her hands. "I finished them a few days ago and put them away."

Smiling, Carlos said, "I'm certain the wait was well worth it. Especially since _you're_ the one who made them for me."

Wait. What? Imelda's focus narrowed in solely on them, tuning out Rosita's quiet squeal or the way the twins exchanged confused looks. What was the man doing? It… it almost reminded her of when Héctor used to follow her around with his guitar when they were barely more than children. What was going on?

"They are Rivera shoes. That means they are dependable, comfortable, and one-of-a-kind because they are intended only for a specific person," said Victoria evenly.

"Rather like the pretty and talented _señorita_ who crafted them," he said as he accepted the box. "I know that I'm going to love them, Victoria. _Gracias_." Gesturing at her hair, Carlos said, "And I can see that you received my gift. Can I assume that you like it?"

Victoria reached up and gently touched the paper flower tucked into her bun, the blue one that she'd been wearing recently. Imelda never thought to ask about it before. But now she couldn't stop staring. Though Héctor was certainly being distracting, his eyes wide as he repeatedly glanced between Victoria and Carlos so quickly that she half-expected his head to fall off his spine. And…

Wait, did Victoria almost look shy. Neither of Imelda's granddaughters were shy, though Victoria certainly wasn't as outgoing as her sister. But the way her eyes briefly dropped and the tiniest hint of a smile made her look shy. Or… like she was trying to avoid blushing, even if skeletons could no longer blush anyway.

What was happening?

"I'm glad that you liked it," he continued. Reaching into his shirt, Carlos said, "Though I did try to find something a little more specific to you."

He pulled out a paperback book. A brown cover with dog-eared corners from a long life of being mishandled, Imelda could tell that it was yet another object gained second-hand. With a small smile that looked as shy as Victoria's, he handed it over to her.

" _Como Agua Para Chocolate_ by Laura Esquivel," read Victoria, her thumb brushing along the cover.

Shrugging, he said, "I don't know if you have it already. The book came out long after I died and probably for you as well. But it seemed like an interesting book and even the recipes looked good."

"You read it?"

"I needed to make sure that you'd like it. And… I thought maybe we could talk about the book together after you finished."

Tilting her head and peering over her glasses, Victoria slowly gave him a more confident smile. A gentle and warm one. The kind that reminded Imelda of how Coco looked when she would sneak out to go dancing with Julio. Or how Elena's expression softened when she spent time with Franco. It took a moment, but Imelda recognized the look in her eyes for what it was.

But it didn't make sense. Her sensible, practical, and level-headed granddaughter never showed much interest in the men around Santa Cecilia. Or… maybe they didn't show much interest in her. Which was ridiculous since Victoria was so smart, beautiful, and talented. But her granddaughter seemed fine with only her family and occasional friend. Imelda accepted it as part of who she was. Victoria didn't want or need a husband, just like Rosita. She never expected to see that particular look in Victoria's eyes.

And yet it that was exactly what Imelda saw now.

"I think I would like that," said Victoria. She glanced up at the clock on the wall before her eyes returned to him. "Perhaps if you have the time to spare this afternoon, you could come with me and I could recommend a few books in return." Victoria looked around briefly at her family. "If you could spare me for a few hours?"

Imelda opened her mouth, though she wasn't certain what she planned to say. But another voice beat her.

"Of course, _míja_ ," said Julio. "We'll be fine."

Giving her a nod, Carlos said, "How could I turn down such an offer from a beautiful _señorita_? I would be happy to accept your invitation."

"Great." Rosita beamed as she scurried over to Juan and Gabriela, taking the wrapped guitar and setting it on the ground. "We'll help Tía Gabriela and Primo Juan with the completed orders for the others while you two have fun. You don't spend enough time away from the workshop anyway."

Victoria gave her _tía_ a fond and mildly exasperated look before shaking her head. Then she gave Carlos a similarly fond smile. But it was different. Less platonic and familial and more…

She loved him Imelda could see it in Victoria's eyes and couldn't believe that she didn't notice it before. She couldn't believe that she was only now learning about Victoria and Rosita taking shoes down to Shantytown and how Carlos apparently developed feelings for Victoria. Her granddaughter loved this man who gave her paper flowers and brought her books.

Part of Imelda wanted to be happy for her granddaughter, finding someone to love and who might even love her back. She deserved to have that in her afterlife. But the rest of her couldn't ignore what was happening. She couldn't ignore reality.

Carlos reached out and Victoria took his hand, ivory fingers wrapping around duller-colored ones.

How long? How long did he have until the Final Death claimed him? How long until Victoria was the one cradling someone that she loved as he shuddered, flashing gold as he was forgotten by the living? How long until Victoria was left with nothing except loss and heartache?

Victoria would lose him far too soon. Imelda couldn't bear the idea of her granddaughter going through that. She couldn't let Victoria go through that pain.

She had to protect her family.

Imelda watched silently as Victoria stepped out of the workshop with Carlos, a small smile on her granddaughter's face and identical looks of surprise and approval on Héctor, the twins, and Julio's faces. Rosita, Juan, and Gabriela merely looked smug and proud. Imelda would discuss all this later. She would fix things later. After their company was gone.

Once Carlos and Victoria were gone, Imelda helped gather the boxes of shoe orders for Juan and Gabriela. All of Rosita and Victoria's "mysterious shoe orders" suddenly had an explanation. But she had no problem providing shoes to those who needed them. These people deserved quality Rivera footwear just as Héctor did.

Though Imelda still found herself struggling with uncomfortable emotions as the interactions continued, not quite jealousy and not quite regret. Héctor looked so happy, so comfortable, and so carefree as he exchanged farewells with his adopted family. As if he didn't have a single worry in the world. Closer to how he used to be with her so long ago.

But the moment that Juan and Gabriela left with their boxes of shoes to take to Shantytown, Héctor slumped. His hand landed on the closest surface for support, drawing Imelda's attention to the fact that he'd not touched his cane while they were around and that he'd been standing for far longer than he'd managed recently. And his carefree expression melted away to something tired and worn out. Almost as if the earlier cheer was at least partially a mask, something he'd slipped on to keep them from worrying.

Giving him a disapproving look, Oscar said, "Dr. García is going to knock your skull off—"

"—for not using your cane, Héctor."

"I won't tell him if you don't," he replied with a wry grin, moving carefully back to his stool.

* * *

Dinner that night felt a little off. It wasn't bad. Only different. But Julio's eyes couldn't help flickering towards Victoria's empty chair.

 _Híjole_ , this was going to kill him again. He was happy for his daughter, but he barely survived Elena dating and that was _with_ Coco's support and reassurance. But now he was dealing with Victoria and her clear interest in this Carlos fellow. And Julio could practically feel himself on the verge of a stress-induced heart attack just thinking about it, regardless of the fact that he was dead and his heart long gone.

Rosita, however, was ecstatic about the whole thing. She'd practically been floating as she cooked and served dinner. It didn't take a mind reader to realize that she fully supported the new relationship.

Not surprisingly, when Victoria came into the house as evening fell, Rosita was the first person to fling herself from the table to greet her.

" _Míja!_ " Wrapping Victoria in a tight hug as if she was still a child, Rosita asked excitedly, "Did you have a good time? Was Carlos a perfect gentleman? What did you do? Where did you go? I want to hear everything. Every detail."

"You were out late," said Imelda evenly.

Pulling out of her tía's arms, Victoria said, " _Lo siento_. I lost track of time. We were at the _biblioteca_ for a little while and I used my card to check out a few books that I thought Carlos might like. The librarian was reluctant to lend books out to him. Apparently they're worried about whether the books would be returned. It took a little while to convince the librarian to be sensible."

Which with Victoria meant firm and unwavering decisiveness rather than the emotional and aggressive reactions that Elena might have displayed in a similar situation. His daughters were both so similar and yet so different in temperament.

"And after that," she continued, "we had something to eat and went to one of the plazas that he tends to play his violin at. It was… nice."

"That sounds nice," said Julio. "I'm happy that you had a good time. Though I think I should probably get to know the man properly sometime."

Smiling reassuringly, Héctor said, "Don't worry. Carlos is a good man. I've known him a while. He wouldn't hurt her."

"It's nice that you had a pleasant evening," said Imelda. "I suppose that everyone deserves a day out on the rare occasion."

"I made plans to see Carlos next week," Victoria said firmly.

Julio didn't see or hear anything, but he felt the subtle shift in the mood around the table. He'd spent too much of his life and afterlife surrounded by strong-willed and intimidating women not to develop a sensitivity to these changes. He hunched his shoulders uneasily. Julio glanced between Imelda and Victoria, noticing the first hints of the Rivera stubbornness starting to manifest in their eyes.

"That may not be the best idea, _míja_ ," said Imelda. "You don't want to rush into anything."

"This isn't rushing, Mamá Imelda. When have you ever known me to be impulsive? This is spending time with someone that I like and whose company I enjoy," she said calmly. "This is getting to know Carlos better. This is the opposite of rushing things and you know it."

Breathing out a tired sigh, Imelda said, " _Míja_ , I know he seems charming, but I really don't think this is the best idea. I don't think you've really taken the time to think this through properly."

"I know that you were protective of Mamá and Elena when they met Papá and Franco, but I seem to recall that you gave them a chance," Victoria said dryly, crossing her arms as she stood there. "I believe that you can afford to extend Carlos the same courtesy. Not only has Papá Héctor spoken for him, but so have I."

"And he seems like a nice man. I'm not saying otherwise."

"Then perhaps you should trust my judgment, Mamá Imelda. I have never given you a reason not to."

Julio cringed uneasily, a reaction that most of the other skeletons shared. No one in the family ever went against Imelda when she put her foot down. With the exception of a certain music-loving living boy. And she was approaching that point now. But while Elena and Victoria always loved and respected their Mamá Imelda, they were never quite as intimidated as other members of the family. Victoria simply went along with her decrees out of respect and because she agreed with them.

But this time, Victoria didn't. And she clearly didn't intend to back down.

This couldn't end well.

"Uh… I have no problem with Carlos," said Julio nervously, not liking the slight edge in their voices and hoping that for once he was wrong about where this conversation was going.

Massaging the bone ridge between her eye sockets tiredly, Imelda said, " _Míja_ , you are just making this more difficult than it needs to be. I'm trying to look out for you. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"For once, I don't need your help looking out for myself. Leave it alone and let me decide things for myself."

"Imelda," said Héctor hesitantly. "Victoria is a grown woman. Older than _we_ were. Maybe…"

" _Victoria_." Imelda's expression hardened. "I'm sorry, but we're not discussing this further. I won't let you get hurt because you aren't thinking."

Glaring through her glasses, Victoria said coldly, "I _am_ thinking. And I know for a fact that Carlos _won't_ hurt me."

"Perhaps not _intentionally_ ," she snapped sharply, causing everyone to wince. Julio couldn't miss the guilt that flashed across Héctor's face. "But no matter how nice that he might seem, Carlos is being forgotten. And Miguel won't be able to pull off another miracle. You won't have much time before he's gone."

"Do you truly believe that I don't know that?" asked Victoria. Her calm and even voice took on the faintest hint of anger that sounded more like Elena, though it grew no louder. "Do you think I am oblivious? I have been thinking about it for a while and I know that it can only end one way. But I would rather have _some_ time with Carlos than to stay away and have _none_."

"And Carlos isn't that far gone yet," Héctor said, his voice a little louder than before. His head was bowed slightly, but his words were steady. "I know the signs. Unless something happens, he should have at least a decade before the Final Death. Maybe even two."

"Do you think that will make it hurt less? It'll break your heart, Victoria," said Imelda. Julio almost thought he heard her voice crack a little, but it must have been his imagination. "And I won't let you go through that. I love you too much and you don't deserve that pain."

"We had less time than that together," Héctor said. He tilted his head, peering up at her. "We were only married for four years before… everything happened. But even after everything that came after, I don't regret a moment of that. Those four years of happiness, of being with you and Coco… It was worth any pain. Do you regret that time?"

Imelda stared at him for a moment with an expression that Julio couldn't identify. Then she looked away. But her frustration with Victoria hadn't evaporated. It remained clear as she turned her attention back towards her granddaughter, apparently deciding to ignore her husband's attempt to defuse the situation.

"Victoria, I only want what's best for you. I'm sorry, but this conversation is over. All of this is over," said Imelda, trying to keep her voice down even as her temper flared. "Now, why don't you sit down and have dinner with your family."

Julio cringed further as he saw Victoria's eyes narrow further. It was like watching a train crash; he couldn't stop what was happening, but he also couldn't look away. Her temper wasn't as explosive as Imelda's or even Elena's. Victoria was slower to anger. And her fury didn't burn bright and hot. Her anger was cold and sharp enough to cut.

And no matter how much she loved Imelda, Victoria was furious beneath her controlled features.

"You're right," she said evenly. "This discussion _is_ over. I will be seeing Carlos next week and you will not interfere in my choices." Quiet and firm, her voice didn't betray her emotions even slightly. "I listen to you on almost everything because I respect what you tell me, Mamá Imelda. But who I care about is _my_ decision and no one else."

Rising to her feet, Imelda said, " _Victoria_ , I will _not_ let you hurt yourself by going down this path. This is for your own good." Her voice was growing louder. "Victoria, I forbid you to speak with that man ever again. I'm sorry, but you'll thank me someday for sparing you that pain."

"And if I _don't_? Papá Héctor is right. I'm an adult and have been for quite some time. What if I continue to spend my free time with Carlos?"

Rivera stubbornness met Rivera stubbornness. Burning fury clashed against cold resolve. Everyone around the table could feel the building tension, but no one wanted to step into the escalating argument. Everything was too volatile to risk it. But Julio knew that it needed to stop before it got worse. Imelda's protective anger and unwavering decisiveness against Victoria's open rebellion and refusal to back down could only lead to disaster.

Julio was happy his little girl found love, but he didn't know if any of them would survive the fallout.

"Then you leave me no choice," snapped Imelda sharply. She was nearly shouting by now. "Victoria, you have to decide. Either listen to your family and drop this entire nonsense now or you'll no longer have a place in—"

" _Imelda!_ "

Everyone jumped in surprise at the shout. Héctor was on his feet, hands braced on the table, head bowed, and shaking slightly. He didn't look at them. His entire posture screamed that he was terrified by what he was doing, that he knew the consequences could be dire. And yet he kept going.

"Don't do this," he said, a little calmer and quieter. "Don't give her an ultimatum. Don't make Victoria choose. No matter what happens, she'll resent you for it. She'll hate you for forcing her like that. And you might even lose her completely." Taking a deep breath, Héctor looked up at Imelda. "Don't do this. Don't be your papá."

Julio saw Imelda flinch as if she'd been slapped across the face, a reaction mirrored by Oscar and Felipe. Then that frustration and burning anger with Victoria's behavior turned towards a different and more familiar target. A target she spent nearly a lifetime furious with. And her temper took on a more explosive quality.

"Don't you _dare_ compare me to him," snarled Imelda. "And stay out of this. This is a _family_ matter."

Héctor was the one who flinched this time, but no one was truly unaffected. Rosita covered her mouth in shock. The twins cringed in their chairs. Julio hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself appear smaller. And Victoria looked stunned at what she'd heard.

But before any of them could respond, something hardened briefly in Héctor's expression.

"Maybe I made some mistakes and maybe I couldn't be with this family for a long time, but I tried. I tried to fix things, I tried to come home, and now I'm trying to keep you from making a mistake that could tear your family apart completely," he said, a slight edge of frustration in his voice even as he stood firm in the face of Imelda's full anger. For the first time since he met the man, Julio could see how Héctor could be her equal partner in marriage. "I may not have done much good for this family, but I refuse to just stand away silently while you try to hurt your granddaughter by doing exactly what your papá did to you."

"He cast me out of the family because I refused to believe that marrying an 'orphan músico' was a mistake, that you couldn't be trusted, that you would leave me, and that I would be left alone with nothing," snapped Imelda. "Turns out he was right in the end. Because that's _exactly_ what happened."

Imelda stiffened suddenly, as if abruptly realizing where her uncontrolled temper led her and what came tumbling out of her mouth. But Héctor was already stepping away from the table, head bowed and the man not meeting anyone's eyes. And his expression… Héctor looked devastated and broken, but also resigned and unsurprised by her words. As if he'd fully expected everything to shatter to pieces long before now. He just stood there, breathing shakily as he gripped his wrist tightly.

The entire thing made something in Julio's empty ribcage ache.

Her voice quiet and hesitant, Imelda said, "Héctor—"

"Maybe I can't be trusted," he interrupted, not a hint of emotion in his tone. He merely sounded tired, dull, and broken as he spoke. "You didn't. You didn't trust how much I loved you and Coco." Héctor shook his head briefly. "I shouldn't have said… _Lo siento_."

Héctor finally looked back up again. He gave the stunned and silent family a polite smile. The expression looked completely fake and utterly heartbreaking.

" _Gracias_. I appreciate everything that you've done for me, but I've imposed on your hospitality for long enough," he said evenly. "I'll be gone by morning."

Reclaiming his cane, Héctor quietly vanished up the stairs. A few moments after the creaking overhead stopped, Imelda spun around and stomped out the door.

* * *

Imelda slammed open the door to the workshop, marching across to her particular corner of it. She yanked out the nearly-complete shoes from where she kept them hidden from sight. Beautiful, well-made, and sturdy shoes. The best pair of shoes that she'd ever made. Shoes made with love, regrets, hope, and pleas for another chance.

She threw them into the bin filled with discarded leather scraps.

Ruined.

Not the shoes. Everything else.

She knew that it wouldn't work. She knew that trying would hurt them both. And yet she was dumb enough to hope.

And then, to make everything worse, she let her temper take control She tried to protect Victoria, but only made a mess of everything. She wouldn't have turned her back on her granddaughter any more than she would deny Miguel a blessing through the entire night if he refused to surrender music. It was only meant to convince Victoria to listen, nothing more. But the moment she was compared to her papá, Imelda lost it. She said the wrong thing, reacted the wrong way, and hurt everyone in the process.

He did hate her. He was angry over what happened. She'd been waiting for the signs. She'd known that he _had_ to hate her for what she did. And now she finally caught a glimpse of that hurt and how upset he was about the past…

But she only saw it after hurting Héctor again, something she'd tried so hard not to do.

How could she have ever thought there was a chance that he would stay?

He was leaving. He was leaving just as she always knew and feared. He would go back to his other family, all those nearly-forgotten skeletons who didn't spend decades shunning him and breaking Héctor's heart. He would be happier with them. She'd already seen it. She saw it that morning, how carefree and relaxed he was with them.

She ruined it. She ruined it that evening. And she ruined the moment she lost faith him her husband, so many years ago.

Imelda didn't even realize she was moving until she was already back in the courtyard. She felt disconnected from her body. She just kept replaying her harsh and unyielding words in her head even as Pepita landed beside her and Imelda buried her face in her fur. And when the alebrije's fur started growing wet, Imelda barely noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Affannato" is written on sheet music during songs that are meant to sound desperate and upset. "Affannato" means to make the music sound "anguished." And if you can't figure out why I chose that title for this chapter, then you haven't been paying attention.
> 
> Yeah, this chapter was intense. But these two skeletons are stubborn and refused to communicate. And that sort of thing keeps building and building until some type of catalyst sets everything off. Sometimes even the smallest thing can be the straw that breaks the camel's back.
> 
> They weren't going to talk. Not unless some outside force caused things to shift, upsetting the balance enough. Carlos and Victoria were the catalyst for change. And change can be good or it can be bad. In this case, what happened was painful for everyone involved.
> 
> But the story isn't quite over yet.


	28. Fortissimo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that I should apologize for that last chapter a bit. But I won't. Because I've been building towards that for a little less than a year now and I don't regret how it turned out. What I will do, however, is move forward so that these characters can figure out how they will handle the aftermath.

By the time her tears had dried and Pepita's comforting purrs had grown quiet, the skies had darkened considerably. The Land of the Dead never truly became dark, not like Santa Cecilia would late at night. It was too large and too crowded for that. A large and towering city compared to the more comfortable small town would always seem louder, brighter, and busier at all hours. But it was as dark as it ever became.

Even the house seemed quiet and dark as she stepped inside. The rest of the household must have retired for the night. Imelda wrapped her arms around herself. The only noise was the soft _click_ of her shoes on the floor as she walked slowly. A lonely sound.

"I'm sorry that we didn't wait up," said Victoria from the darkness, startling Imelda with her presence. She walked around the table, fingers trailing along the surface. "After what happened at dinner, no one was in the mood for further conversation."

Imelda took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. She knew what she had to do. She'd known even as she wept into Pepita's fur, furious at herself for so many things. This wouldn't be easy. But she needed to do this.

" _Lo siento_ ," she said quietly. "For what I said to you before. I…" Imelda shook her head. "You didn't deserve that. You're a grown woman and you know your own heart. If you truly care for this man and if you accept how limited this time might be, then I should not stand in your way. My own parents attempted to control who I loved and only managed to drive me away."

Even after nearly a century, Imelda remembered how much it hurt when her papá forced her to choose between her family and the man that she loved. She remembered the harsh way his voice sounded as he delivered his ultimatum and the cold way he turned his back on her without hesitation. Everything had to be his way and he refused to accept anything else. Papá demanded perfect obedience, assuming that he always knew best.

Imelda hated her papá for putting her in that position. She hated him for making her choose and for refusing to listen to what she wanted. And yet despite her best efforts, she'd become too much like him in the end. Rigid, uncompromising, and refusing to listen to her family.

But that didn't mean she couldn't make things right. She could still change. She could do better.

She took a step towards her granddaughter, reaching up to cup her cheekbone. Imelda gave her a gentle smile.

"I wanted to protect my family," she continued. "Even from heartache and loss. I have always tried to protect our family. But it seems that my methods aren't always the best. I've made many mistakes, _míja_. How I treated you was wrong. I did it out of love and to try to keep you safe, but it was still wrong. Especially when I lost my temper with you. _Lo siento_."

"I know that you only wanted to protect me," said Victoria. "You were trying to do what you thought was right for me. I understand and forgive you. I won't change my mind about Carlos, but I forgive you."

"I won't ask you to change your mind about him. Not again, _míja_."

Imelda pulled her into a hug. It was brief, but it was enough to reassure her that the worst of the damage from her harsh words and temper was mended. It meant that she hadn't destroyed at least one relationship that evening.

As the hug came to an end, Victoria pulled back and said, "I'm not the only one that you owe an apology to tonight."

Slumping slightly, she said, "I know."

If her behavior towards Victoria was wrong, then her words to Héctor were no less than cruel. Despite her intentions to never hurt him again, Imelda fell back on the habits and mindset that she followed for decades. Habits were hard to break and it had been a long time since anyone had shared the role of being head of the household. She'd spent too long needing to meet every obstacle as a fight. And then she lashed out at Héctor in the worst way possible.

She'd been too cowardly to ask Héctor to stay before everything spiraled out of control. But Imelda would at least offer him an apology. She owed him so many.

She knew it would be hard. She knew it would hurt. But she owed him that much.

"Before morning," said Victoria, "you should speak with him. I don't know if it'll change his mind, but you can try. Don't let those words spoken in anger be the ones you part on."

Imelda nodded slowly, silently accepting that her granddaughter was right. No matter how difficult the conversation might be, they should at least part on better terms than what her vicious words provided. If this turned out to be her final conversation with Héctor, then she would give him at least a fraction of the apologies that he deserved.

* * *

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hat resting on his lap as he stared numbly at the burning oil lamp. Héctor knew that he would be better off going to sleep. There was no need to gather his belongings since he only possessed his mended clothes and the wrapped-up guitar that he wasn't even certain that he wanted, music still causing him mixed emotions. There was nothing else that he would need to prepare. There was no reason to stay up any longer. And yet he couldn't bring himself to sleep yet.

Sleep would bring the morning all the sooner. And morning would be the end.

Héctor wasn't completely surprised by how everything worked out. He'd known that it wouldn't last. He always lost anything good in his existence. At least he no longer had to worry about ruining everything and being cautious about doing the wrong thing. He'd already done so. It was already over.

But he didn't regret his decision to help his granddaughter and to stop Imelda from making a mistake that she would have quickly regretted. He didn't regret it. And yet hearing Imelda's rage turned against him once more, cutting into him sharply as she denied his place within the family, hurt more than he expected.

He closed his eyes, his fingers shifting his hat back and forth. These last few months had been among the most wonderful that he'd experienced in decades. Getting to see Imelda and getting to know the family that he'd spent so long estranged from… It was worth the pain of his close brush with the Final Death. It was worth anything. Even though it ended in heartache, the months since _Día de Muertos_ were ones that he treasured.

But even the most wonderful dream must come to an end. It was time to wake up.

A quiet _creak_ coaxed Héctor into raising his head and opening his eyes. Gently easing the door closed behind her, Imelda stood before him with a stoic expression. He returned to his feet almost without thought. The healing fracture ached at the pressure of standing, but he couldn't bring himself to retrieve the cane. Héctor could only stare at his wife, wondering what brought her to see him so late at night and after what happened at dinner.

"I don't regret it," she said without preamble. Looking at his confused and wary expression, Imelda continued, "You asked before if I regretted our time together, however limited it might have been? I don't." A weak, fragile, and apologetic smile briefly crossed her face. "They were wonderful years. Without them, we would have never had Coco. And for a time, I had you."

While he'd initially stiffened, preparing himself for the worst once again, her words destroyed his assumptions. He hadn't been ready for this. It left him feeling unbalance. A feeling that had nothing to do with his healing leg.

But if she was calm and speaking to him, he shouldn't let the opportunity pass him by. He wasn't certain if she hated him or if she wanted him to stay, but he needed to tell her something before the chance disappeared.

He needed to apologize.

Taking a deep breath, Héctor said, " _Lo siento_. I should have never compared you to your papá."

"The comparison was not as baseless as I would wish," she said, her eyes dropping. "I… was wrong to react as I did to Victoria and her affection for Carlos. You were right that she is a grown woman and can make her decisions on her own." Raising her eyes back to him, Imelda continued, "And I should not have said what I did to you, Héctor. I was upset, but my words were cruel. You didn't deserve that. _Lo siento_. I let my temper get the best of me."

"You always were spirited. Fiery, both in temper and passion. Remember? And you were never afraid to speak your mind." Héctor gave her a tiny fond smile before it slipped away. "I knew that when I married you."

"But I think that I grew a bit sharper with age," she said. "And sometimes, a little colder."

Héctor could only imagine what it would have been like for her, raising Coco alone and forcing everyone to respect her. He'd thought about it over the decades, imaging dozens of scenarios and ideas of what might be happening to the family that he left behind.

Things had changed over time. He'd watched the passage of time from Land of the Dead rather than living through it, but he knew that things had changed. And for many people, they had improved.

But back then, it wouldn't have been easy for a woman alone. Some men would see her as vulnerable. They would try to take advantage of her situation. And a woman who was "abandoned" by her husband would have been seen as a failure as a wife, something that she would have fought against tooth and nail. A life like that would have made her sharper and harder than in her youth.

"You were never anything like what Papá accused," Imelda continued, "no matter what Ernesto's crimes might have caused."

"But for a long time, you believed me capable of everything that your papá warned you of," he said quietly, unable to stop himself.

Her stoic expression returning, Imelda said, "You're right. When your letters stopped, when times grew lean as my business started and we no longer received your money to help, when I couldn't go down the street without being the subject of pitying stares and being bombarded by the constant gossip of what happens when a man wanders far from home, and when Ernesto never sent word of harm befalling his friend like how we would have expected…" She shook her head. "Yes, I lost my faith in the man that I should have trusted most. It isn't an excuse. Merely an explanation. I let myself assume the worst when you never gave me reason. And for that, I may never forgive myself. I tried to forget you because it hurt too much to remember, but I should have remembered. I should have remembered who I married."

Her expression remained firm and unrevealing. And her voice maintained an even tone. But the slow words hinted that what she was saying wasn't coming nearly as easy to her as they seemed. And her confession weighed heavily on Héctor, giving him a closer glimpse of what her life was like after his death.

"I wish that I could change what happened back then," he said quietly, wrapping his fingers around his wrist. "I'd give anything to go back to how things used to be."

"But we can't. Too much time has passed. We've changed too much to go back."

Héctor tightened his grip on his wrist and his hat. For a moment, he'd started to hope that things were settling down again. But then she seemed to toss that chance aside. He couldn't follow her lead if he couldn't tell where she was headed from one minute to the next.

Quietly, he asked, "Is this how it is going to be then?"

"This is for the best," she continued evenly. "At least there are no more false assumptions between us. And we're parting on far more neutral terms." Imelda turned slightly, no longer facing him. "And when Coco arrives someday, you won't have to worry about seeing her. She's missed you. She never lost her faith in you. We'll tell her the truth. And we won't stop her from seeing you. No matter what I said before, this is still your family and we will not turn you away again."

Did she want him to stay or go? Héctor couldn't tell. The implications on her words kept coming across as a mixture, both encouragement and dissuading him in equal measure. Perhaps once he would have been able to decipher her intentions. But she was right that they'd both changed. It had been too long and he couldn't be certain.

And he was tired. Héctor was tired, his nonexistent heart weighed heavily in his ribcage, and his leg ached from standing without the cane. He couldn't find the energy to keep looking for the right decision. He was too tired to keep trying.

" _Por favor_ ," said Héctor quietly, "just tell me. Tell me…"

Looking back towards him, Imelda asked, "Tell you what?"

"What do you want from me, Imelda? Do you want me to go? Do you want me to…?" He shook his head, trying to put his thoughts into words. "I can't keep wondering. I can't continue with this uncertainty."

Hesitating briefly, she asked, "What is it that you want?"

"I want you to be happy, _mi am_ — Imelda…" Héctor tossed his hat on the bed before spreading his hands beseechingly. "I've made too many mistakes, but I want to do this much right. I'll do whatever you ask of me. If you tell me to only visit occasionally, then so be it. If you don't want to see me, I will only speak to the others when you aren't home. You won't see my face if that's what you wish. I'll accept however much or little that you might offer. I'll accept it without question. Just… just tell me what you want from me. I don't know what you want. I don't know…"

She stared at him silently through his tired declaration. She never moved during the entire thing. And he couldn't decipher her expression, her thoughts hidden beneath an emotionless mask. And even when he finished, Imelda didn't immediately react. She simply stared silently, the weight of her gaze pressing down on him heavily. The suspense added to the crushing weight. He could barely breathe from the pressure.

He just wanted to know. He couldn't continue with the uncertainty. It was too hard.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

"I want what I've always wanted, Héctor," said Imelda, her voice tired and heavy as she took a small step towards him. "Even when everything else changed, that never did."

_I want nothing to do with you. Not in life. Not in death._

Héctor's stomach no longer existed, but he felt it drop nonetheless. His head fell even as he gave a small nod, unable to look at anything other than the smooth wood floor. It was foolish to hope that she would change her mind and would want him back. He didn't deserve another chance.

But he would be fine. He would accept her decision. At least he knew where he stood now.

And Héctor tried to look on the positive. He wasn't being forgotten now, so he had time. Whenever Coco passed, he would have a chance to see her and to tell her everything that he wanted. He could still tell her that he loved his daughter. He could see Coco briefly before withdrawing again, giving Imelda the space that she clearly desired. Perhaps Coco would visit him occasionally. And maybe even Miguel someday if he passed the stories on. It would be enough. It would be more than enough for him.

He would be fine. He would accept it. If this was what Imelda wanted, if it would make her happy, then he would do the right thing.

He barely noticed that Imelda had come closer while he was wrapped up in his own thoughts. Héctor vaguely saw her shifting her weight back and forth, as if struggling with a decision. But he couldn't bring himself to raise his head enough to look properly. He couldn't bring himself to pay attention.

Not until she suddenly wrapped her arms around him, nearly knocking him off his feet at the unexpected impact as she hugged him tight. Héctor stiffened in surprise. He couldn't find any words. He could barely think.

All he could feel was her arms around his body, fingers digging desperately into the back of his vest and into the gaps between his ribs. He could feel her face buried into this shoulder. And he could feel her trembling slightly, as if the very act of holding him frightened his fearless wife.

"I want _you_ ," she whispered fiercely. "I miss you. I _love_ you. Please don't go."

Taking a shaking breath and letting her words soak in, Héctor felt his body nearly surrender. He barely kept himself from collapsing completely at her unexpected reaction.

The words… They didn't make sense. Did they? She…

And yet she was hugging him, holding almost too tightly. As if he might slip between her fingers. And he didn't hear a lie in her voice.

His hands slowly edged their way up, feeling her spine through the soft fabric. Héctor returned the embrace, hugging her close as he leaned into the contact. He closed his eyes, treasuring her touch after being denied it for so long.

She said that she wanted him. She said that she loved him. She asked him to stay. She _wanted_ him to stay.

Before, he felt like he was sinking and falling. But now Héctor felt light as a feather. He could probably float over the _cempazúchitl_ petals of the bridge without effort. A new hope burned bright within him. Not a fragile and fleeting hope, but a solid and sturdy one built on reality. The flood of emotion washing over him felt intoxicating and wonderful.

"I'll stay." Héctor's hand rubbed up and down her back, memories stirring of how they once embraced in life. "I'll stay with you. _Mi amor. Mi vida. Mi alma_. I'll stay. I never wanted to leave you again. As long as you'll have me, I'll stay by your side."

* * *

Relief flowed into as Imelda listened to his words, soft and sweet like a gentle refrain. The tight pressure in her ribcage loosened, letting the pain and strain knotted up there ease to something more comfortable. It was hard enough to bring herself to make her confession. Making herself vulnerable was not something that she did. Not anymore and not for a long time. But she managed to gather her courage and finally tell Héctor what she wanted. To admit that she loved him still. To admit that she wanted him to stay.

And Héctor wanted to stay in return.

She took a shaking breath as his hand slowly moved to the edge of her shoulder blade. Despite her certainties of how things would unfold, that they'd hurt each other too much to repair the damage, he wanted to stay with her. He was holding her exactly as he did so long ago.

It didn't completely erase the ancient wounds left by decades of loss and fury, but they _were_ healing.

"Then stay by my side until the Final Death claims us both," she said. "And no matter what arguments might arise, what mistakes we might make, or what our stubbornness and past pain might lead to, this will never change. This is your home, you are my husband, and I will never turn you away again."

She felt his head move, nuzzling her hair. Imelda felt the tension leaving his body, though his embrace never loosened. He seemed to be growing more relaxed than she could remember recently. Even more relaxed than when his other family visited.

And he was this relaxed with _her_.

"I thought you must have hated me," she admitted softly. "For doubting you for so long. For hurting you. For trying to have you forgotten by our family."

"Never." Héctor murmured the words into her hair, one hand moving up to cup the back of her head. "I was angry and hurt for a while, but I could never hate you." His hand slid along her bound hair and traced the paths of the ribbons woven in. "But do you truly think we have changed too much? That we can't go back to what we once were?"

She shook her head slightly, though not enough to dislodge his hand. As much as she wanted to remain in that moment, enjoying the touch of her husband and the memories of life it brought, she couldn't keep silent. Silence between them had only bred further heartache. From now on, they must be honest and speak to one another. They couldn't avoid things. No matter how difficult.

"I am no longer a young women and young mother, but a grandmother several times over and a business woman," she said evenly. "And no matter how young you died, time affected you just as strongly. It would be foolish to believe that we can recapture the past."

"But we could never change enough that I would stop loving you."

Smiling at his words and feeling the familiar flutter of hope in her ribcage, Imelda said, "Then if we cannot return to the past, then perhaps we can find a way to create something new."

"I would like that," he said softly, the heavy whisper coming out as a sigh of relief. Héctor held her close, rocking her gently back and forth as they stood there. "I would like that very much."

Imelda loosened her grip enough to move her hands up his back towards his shoulders. She wouldn't claim that everything was fine. It would take time, effort, and a lot of uncomfortable conversations about topics that neither of them were eager to discuss. There would be more arguments and struggles to rediscover how to be husband and wife again. But part of her knew that they would work their way through those challenges. She didn't have to worry that he would walk away and he didn't have to worry about being cast out. That security would be enough to move forward.

Héctor took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his thumb rubbing along the edge of her shoulder blade in a soothing pattern. The other hand kept toying with her bound hair. He hummed softly as his face leaned against her hair, apparently savoring the contact.

His ribs felt solid against her. He felt steady and firm in her embrace. When they brought Héctor home, he was still, silent, and his bones so fragile. Everything about him had seemed brittle. She'd been afraid that the slightest pressure would shatter him apart. But then memories knit him back together, leaving him strong and stable. And each breath reminded her of that progress. It reminded her that he was safe and with her once again.

Refusing to second guess herself, Imelda let her hand drift a little higher. Her fingers buried into his hair and earned a soft and happy hum in return. With the gentlest pressure, she coaxed his face down a little. She saw his eyes flutter open briefly, a confused look on his face. But only for a moment before Imelda pulled him into a kiss.

Héctor stiffened initially, his hands pulling away slightly from her. But then, as if realizing that it _was_ happening and it _was_ all right, he began to kiss her back. Gentle and timid at first, his confidence and enthusiasm quickly grew. Like a spark from an ember rekindling a warm flame. Imelda kept him close as she deepened the kiss, her fingers digging into his hair and dragging along his skull in a way that earned her a quiet moan of pleasure.

It wasn't the same as in life. The lack of flesh or tongue, the _click_ of bone-against-bone, and other various details all made the experience foreign in comparison. And yet, even with all the differences, there was a familiarity to the act. Every bit of contact ignited a warmth in her bones.

She'd missed this. She'd missed _him_. More than she could had ever realized.

Héctor pulled her firmly, guiding Imelda without breaking off the kiss. She allowed it. Eventually he reached the edge of the bed, sitting down while pulling her across his lap. His left arm braced against her back, his phalanges curling near the top of her shoulder. Her fingers moved gently, going from cupping his face before combing through his hair and then back.

Eventually the kiss, the one that had been waiting for nearly a century, came to an end. Héctor pulled away about an inch, his eyes closed and breathing heavily. He leaned against her hand as it drifted back to his cheekbone.

" _Lo siento_ ," he whispered, his voice rougher than deeper than normal. "For everything. For leaving. For…" He swallowed out of habit rather than need. "If this is a dream—"

"It's real." Imelda pressed a short kiss to his mouth, soft and comforting. "This is happening, _cariño_."

This time, Héctor initiated the kiss. Another long, deep, and intense one. His fingers on his right hand plucked at her ribbons, tugging them loose with familiar ease. Ancient skills that spent decades dormant clearly remained. Her hair unfurled, tumbling down her shoulders as the ribbons fluttered to the smooth wood floor and his mouth pressed eagerly against hers. Firm, warm, and tender, every movement from him left her desiring more.

The last time that she kissed Héctor, the last time that a man kissed her, was the night before he left. Even then, it was short and overshadowed by anger. She'd been upset that he was leaving and even his charms weren't enough to completely improve her mood, Imelda too upset that he and Ernesto were going to be gone for so long. Their last night together involved soft kisses as Héctor tried to coax one final smile before he left the next morning.

This was different, though the warmth it stirred in her brought back memories of life, of being young and in love with her musician husband. This was passion, longing, relief, and love tangled together and intensified by several decades apart.

Sitting across his lap, Imelda and Héctor switched between deep and intense kisses that took her breath away and soft ones that brushed lightly across bone. One hand rested on his shoulder while her fingers combed through his hair, scraping along where his scalp would have been. Similarly, his fingers tangled gently in her loose hair.

Everything felt good. It felt right. She couldn't even begin to describe how much she'd missed him.

" _Te amo_."

Imelda wasn't certain if she whispered those words or if Héctor was the one making the quiet declaration of love. But it was soon echoed. The long-estranged pair remained like that, nearly tangled together as they made up for lost time.

* * *

Rosita kept her steps quiet as she left her room. She even avoided the creaky stairs. But when she started to pass by the closed door, she paused.

After last night, her romantic hopes for Mamá Imelda were severely damaged. Not completely broken, but certainly cracked. Rosita knew that the two of them belonged together. Separated by death and misunderstandings, reunited by chance and destiny, Mamá Imelda and Héctor now had the chance to rekindle their relationship. Half of Rosita's favorite romance stories didn't have plots as beautiful and tragic.

But they couldn't have their happily ever after if Héctor left. Rosita knew that with a little more time, the pair would see how much they still loved each other.

Rosita reached for the door. If he hadn't left yet, perhaps she could persuade Héctor to remain. She could convince Héctor to stay and work things out with his wife. She couldn't give up on them.

And if she couldn't talk sense into them, Rosita would lock the pair of them in a closet together, no matter what the rest of the family said.

But when she slowly opened the door, hoping that Héctor would still be inside rather than already gone, Rosita was greeted by an unexpected sight. And she was forced to clasp both hands over her mouth to keep from squealing in excitement.

The bed remained occupied, a quilt draped across weary bones. Two skeletons slept there, still wearing the clothes from the night before. Imelda's hair lay loose around her face as she remained curled on her side, the woman having claimed the side of the bed closest to the door. Behind her with an arm draped over her and holding her against his chest, Héctor slept with her. Mamá Imelda's hand covered his. Even in sleep, even with his taller frame curled around hers, the pair held onto each other. As if they didn't want to separate even as the dreamt of one another.

 _So_ romantic.

Rosita quietly eased the door back closed, not wanting to disturb them. She struggled with the grin on her face, trying to smother it enough that the rest of the family wouldn't guess what she'd seen. Then she hurried down the stairs to the ground floor.

She was surprised that everyone else was already down there. Oscar and Felipe were holding a pair of nearly-completed shoes, the ones that Mamá Imelda had been working on so carefully. And after a little studying, Rosita realized that the family shared identical knowing looks on their faces.

Apparently she wasn't the only one who decided to quietly investigate things that morning.

"So I guess that you know?" asked Rosita.

Nodding, Julio said, " _Sí_. We know. Mamá Imelda and Héctor… They…" He ducked his head, looking a little flustered. "We know."

" _Finally_ ," said Victoria, crossing her arms as she rolled her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fortissimo" is an indication on dynamics or "the volume that the music is to be performed." Specifically, it means that the music is meant to be played very loudly. It is generally indicated by "ff" on the sheet music. It is ideal for dramatic and impactful sections. And since this is the chapter the entire story has been building towards, it was the best place to use it.
> 
> Only one chapter left for this story. It has been a long and wonderful experience writing this. I'm glad that so many people seemed to enjoy this and continued to read and comment over the months that I've been working on it. Hopefully you'll be satisfied with the ending I have in mind. Thanks for all the support.


	29. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The final chapter. I started this story a little less than a year ago and now we are finally at an end. Thanks so much for supporting me. Thanks for reading this story and leaving all of your lovely comments. I deeply appreciate them. 
> 
> And now we get on with the ending. I hope that it satisfies you.

Miguel scurried towards Mamá Coco's room, a guitar slung across his back and the morning sun already warming him up. Fragments of a new song tumbled around his head. He'd been working on an idea. A few snippets of a tune and clever phrases, but nothing close to complete. The more Miguel worked on it, the more impressed he was with Papá Héctor's songs. But he couldn't wait to show Mamá Coco what he had so far.

He knocked on her door, but didn't wait for an answer. Mamá Coco was always happy to see him. No matter the time of day, even if she'd spent more and more time the last few weeks napping, she would smile and welcome him in. And since Abuelita would be coming in to check on her again soon anyway, he wouldn't even be waking her up. Not really.

Mamá Coco was in her wheelchair by the window. For a moment, Miguel was strongly reminded of the morning after _Día de Muertos_. She was in the exact same position and everything. Her eyes were closed and she didn't even move her head when he came in. She probably dozed off. Dante lay at her feet silently, though he wagged his tail slowly when he spotted Miguel.

" _Buenos días_ , Mamá Coco," he called gently. "I've got something to show you."

She didn't stir, so he walked closer. But when he reached for her hand, Miguel stiffened and his stomach seemed to drop. She felt too cold. And she was too quiet.

He knew. Miguel tried to deny it, but he knew. He was too smart for his own good.

His breathing hitched as his throat tried to tighten. Sniffling a little as he wiped his eyes, Miguel pulled his hand back. It didn't feel real. He didn't feel real. It was like his body was being controlled by a series of strings like a marionette.

He knew that he shouldn't be upset. He knew that the Land of the Dead was a nice place and that Mamá Coco would be happy there. But that didn't stop the ache in his chest or the lump forming in his throat. He already _missed_ her.

She was dead. Mamá Coco was…

Miguel desperately wanted to run from the room. To run and throw himself into his parents' arms. To let them hold him close and tell him that everything would be all right. But mostly he wanted this to be a dream so he could wake up.

But, taking a shaking breath, he forced himself to stay. He needed to do something first.

While he knew that people could take things with them when they died, like Papá Héctor's _foto_ , Miguel didn't know if it was stuff they were holding when they died or when they were buried. He'd discussed the idea with Mamá Coco and they'd agreed to cover their bases. But he couldn't let the rest of their family in the meantime. The would ask a lot of complicated questions. He could slip it into the coffin later. But for now, he needed to hide it.

Tucked under her shawl out of sight, Miguel pulled out a thick envelope. Across the front in his neatest handwriting, it read "Only open on _Día de Muertos_ or at the Marigold Grand Central Station." He'd added and altered the contents almost a dozen times, but he always returned it to Mamá Coco in the end. She'd kept it close ever since Miguel came up with the idea.

But until the funeral, he would hold onto the thick packet.

Miguel crept back, unable to look at her any longer. As he sniffled again, his eyes drifted towards the quietly waiting dog at her feet.

"Dante," he said, his voice cracking. Wiping away the tears on his face, Miguel said, "I need you to do something for me."

Raising his head, Dante stared at him. He almost looked serious. The tongue dangling out of his mouth ruined the effect though.

"Take care of Mamá Coco," he said unsteadily. "Make sure she gets to Papá Héctor all right."

His tail wagged once as he climbed to his feet. Maybe he was agreeing to Miguel's request. Maybe he was just happy to hear Miguel talking to him. Either way, Dante trotted past him and out the door.

It would be okay. He knew that Dante wouldn't let him down.

Miguel silently slipped the thick envelope under his shirt and turned around. But as he stepped out of the room, he nearly ran straight into a startled Abuelita.

" _Míjo_?"

That one word, spoken with such love and concern, broke the last of his self-control. Miguel wrapped his arms around her and buried his face, crying into her apron.

* * *

Coco woke up in darkness. She couldn't see anything, but she knew she wasn't in her familiar bedroom. Even as she slowly stirred and sat up, she could sense that she was in a large and empty space. Peering through the strange darkness as much as possible and growing more curious by the moment, Coco climbed to her feet.

Then she remembered that it had been a long time since she could stand on her own.

She looked down. And even without any light in the strange and dark place, Coco could see herself perfectly well. Her dress, her shawl, and even her slippers were all familiar. But her wrinkled and sagging skin was gone. Clean, smooth, white bones met her eyes instead. She flexed her hands, watching the small white shapes move. It looked strange, but familiar.

She was a skeleton. Just like Miguel described.

Which meant that she was dead.

That realization should have bothered her more, but Coco had been expecting this for a long time. She'd been tired for too long for it to be a surprise. There was a distant feeling of melancholy and loss at the realization that she left her family behind, that her Elena and the various grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be left alone, but mostly she felt calm and accepting.

She was dead. Nothing that she could do would change it. But her family would manage without her. The chaos surrounding the Ernesto de la Cruz issue had settled down enough that any outrage was pointed in directions other than the Rivera family. Music filled the household. She'd done all that she could to help them in the last few months. She'd done what she could for her family and now it was over. Coco accepted her death quietly and easily.

But she didn't particularly want to remain in the dark emptiness for long.

Loud and familiar barking was all the warning that she received before a colorful and glowing creature appeared, bouncing in circles around her. It took Coco a few moments to calm him down, but eventually the bright creature settled enough for her to recognize the creature as a dog. One with chaotic patterns of color, no fur, and undersized wings, but certainly a dog. And she recognized both the dog and the description of his more unusual traits.

" _Hola_ , Dante," she said. "I suppose Miguel asked you to keep an eye on me." She smiled gently. "You're an alebrije, right? Then as a spirit guide, perhaps you can guide me to where I'm supposed to go?"

His ears perked up and he tried to start running, tripping over his own feet several times in the process. Eventually he seemed to give up his traditional method of locomotion and started flapping his tiny wings. His legs kept moving even as he clumsily flew through the air ahead of her.

Coco followed him, enjoying the simple sensation of walking. No stiffness. No pain. No weakness. It had been a long time since she experienced this level of independence. Elena would have been stunned to see her mamá up and about like this. She even managed to take a few small and fast steps, almost like the start of a dance. It wasn't like there was anything to hold her back now.

As they moved forward, Coco began to notice others in the darkness. Other skeletons. Some scared. Almost all of them confused. And they were being led or herded by colorful alebrijes of differing shapes and sizes. They were also headed in the same direction that Dante was flying.

After a while, Coco came to the bottom of a stone staircase. An ancient one, the steps worn smooth by the centuries and millions of people climbing them. Looking up, she could make out the faintest hint of light. Something more than the glow of the alebrijes. With no other options, Coco started climbing them alongside the dozen other confused skeletons.

"Installing some handrails would have been a nice gesture," she said quietly. "Or one of those elevator things."

Not that she truly minded. The novelty of being able to move on her own hadn't worn off yet.

As she moved further and further up, the darkness began to give way to something brighter. It started out blurry, but it gradually came into focus. Parts looked like ancient pyramids, but other elements reminded her of a train station. In the distance, she could make out glimpses of the bright and tall towers that Miguel described, a city built vertically as each new generation added on.

And at the top of the stairs was a skeleton in a tidy uniform. Bright and colorful shapes decorated his face, reminding her of a sugar skull with eyes. And with a reassuring and professional smile, she saw that he was carefully directing the new arrivals ahead of her.

Curious, Coco looked back the way that she came. Dark water lapped at the stone stairs. From this angle, it looked as if she'd walked out of the endless sea without a single drop touching her. As she watched, another nervous skeleton seemed to slowly fade into view, going from wispy and fog-like to something solid as he reached the top step.

Clearly, going back wasn't an option.

The alebrijes brought the confused and nervous arrivals to the top of the stairs. Some immediately turned around and vanished down the steps again, fading out of sight like fog. They probably intended to guide more souls out of the darkness. Without a specific person, they seemed content to help anyone who needed it. Others remained with their new skeletons. Like how Dante landed beside her, tail wagging.

" _Hola_ ," greeted the well-dressed skeleton for what sounded like the dozenth time. "Welcome to the Land of the Dead. Please keep moving forward in a calm and orderly fashion. An Arrivals agent will meet you inside to help with your transition."

Coco gave him a short nod of greetings as she and Dante continued. They followed the disorganized line of people forward until they entered a building properly. Further uniformed skeletons directed the new arrivals until they reached a large room.

Along one side of the room was a long counter divided into sections by black wrought iron, rather like what might be found at a bank. Though no one, bank teller or otherwise, was actually behind the counter today. Instead they were working their way down the line of people down the center of the room, carrying clipboards and occasionally leading one of the newcomers either towards a hallway or one of the desks. There were about a dozen small desks with clunky cube machines that resembled gray televisions combined with a typewriters. Computers, Coco remembered belatedly. The side of the room opposite of the long counter were doors with frosted glass windows and neat black letters labeling them.

And almost everywhere she looked, she saw skull patterns in the architecture, the furniture, and the general decorations. Miguel didn't exaggerate that particular feature.

Thankfully, the line was short and there were numerous people with clipboards. Coco waited patiently at the end, carefully studying her surroundings and the various skeletons in the building. She might as well start getting used to these various new things. Eventually, a pretty young woman with markings that reminded her of the sun in both shapes and color approached Coco.

" _Hola_ ," greeted the younger skeletal woman. "My name is Helena López and I'll be handling your initial paperwork. I know that all of this can be stressful and confusing, but we're going to help you through this. Once we get your basic information down, we'll send you to one of the waiting rooms while we contact any deceased family members that you might have. If you don't know anyone in particular that we can contact, we can also look up to see if anyone has listed you as a relative in the past." She gestured towards the desks as other skeletons typed away and spoke with anxious newcomers. "We can also provide someone to talk to if you need help coming to terms with what's happened. We've seen people react in a variety of ways to death."

" _Gracias_." Coco chuckled softly to herself. "I think I am coming to terms with my death quite fine. It wasn't much of a surprise at my age."

Helena smiled politely before asking, "May I have your name then?"

"Socorro Rivera. Most people call me 'Coco.'"

The skeleton stiffened briefly before writing it down on her form.

"Former place of residence?"

"I spent my entire life in Santa Cecilia."

"Date of birth?" asked Helena slowly, eyeing her carefully.

"December 8, 1917."

And the Arrivals agent didn't write the answer down. She stared at Coco with an expression that she couldn't decipher.

"Daughter of… Imelda Rivera? Related to a living boy named Miguel Rivera?"

Nodding, Coco said, "I suppose my great-grandson mad quite the impression around here last _Día de Muertos_. I apologize for any trouble that he might have caused."

Helena stared at her, one hand moving up to cover her mouth. Bare skulls were more difficult to judge currently than normal faces, but her expression looked completely shocked. Then a grin spread, the woman glancing around briefly as if ensuring that her coworkers weren't listening.

"Could you come with me, Señora Rivera?" Helena took her hand and pulled her out of line. A little quieter, she added, "I'm afraid that if anyone else who works here figures out who you are, they'll swarm you. They'll be too excited about you showing up. And with something like this, the gossip spreads fast. I don't think you want a lot of people crowding around first thing."

Coco opened her mouth, but none of the dozen questions swirling around her skull came out. Helena pulled her along too quickly to think, leading her down a different hallway towards another door. Dante trailed loyally behind them.

Inside was a crowded office. The desk was covered with stacks of files, another computer, and a black telephone vaguely shaped like a skull. One the other side of the room was a long bench with colorful embroidery on the cushions. Coco suspected that if she looked closely, she would she skull and bone shapes stitched into the fabric. But she didn't take the chance to inspect it further because Helena directed her to sit down.

"Normally we would have you wait in one of the larger rooms set aside for the purpose," said Helena. "But if you will indulge me a little, that would be nice."

Smiling at the younger woman, Coco gave a nod while scratching at Dante's ears. Helena started typing at the computer as the alebrije curled up under the bench. After a few moments, Helena apparently found what she was looking for and moved to the telephone.

After dialing and then waiting for someone to pick up the line, Helena smiled and said, " _Hola_. Is this the Rivera residence? …Ah, Señora Imelda Rivera. So nice to speak to you again. I don't know if you remember me, but it's Helena López from the Marigold Grand Central Station. I visited your home after… _Sí_. That's right. Listen, I found something of his down here and I thought… That would be perfect. I'll see you both down here to pick it up shortly then."

Coco didn't know if it was physically possible to raise an eyebrow as a skeleton, but she certainly tried it as Helena hung up the telephone. The young woman looked excited and pleased with herself.

"Planning to turn me into a surprise?" asked Coco.

Helena shrugged slightly, causing Coco to chuckle slightly. There was nothing wrong with surprising her mamá with her arrival. The little bit of mischief would be fun. Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe would certainly approve.

And maybe she could manage to kiss her Julio before he could get over the shock. She liked flustering him like that. Could skeletons still blush? She would have to find out.

 _Ay_ , she'd missed him.

"It isn't _just_ for my own entertainment. It will also keep the entire family from showing up here. I can't fit all of them in this smaller room. Not to mention the last time all of your dead relatives were here, we had to replace a computer. Granted, Señora Rivera _did_ come in later to apologize and pay for it, but Maria wasn't happy about it." Stepping away from the desk, Helena said, "Do you need anything else while you wait?"

"No. I'm fine," said Coco. "Other than being dead, but even that isn't too upsetting."

Helena smiled gently at her before pulling the door closed. Coco was left alone in the room with Dante resting comfortably under the bench. She could make out distant and muffled voices through the walls, but it was mostly quiet in that corner of the building. And peaceful. She could almost imagine dozing off while waiting.

But she's slept long enough in recent days.

Coco reached under her shawl and pulled out a familiar envelop. She smiled to herself, pleased that it managed to come with her. She knew that Miguel did a lot of adjustments to the package, adding to and changing the contents over time. But she never actually took a look for herself.

Well, the envelope _did_ say to open at the Marigold Grand Central Station.

Making sure that she didn't damage the overstuffed envelop, Coco opened it and pulled out the thick pile of paper. The first page made her smile wistfully, running a boney finger along the signature at the bottom. Only getting to see Miguel and the others once a year would be difficult. She already missed them. She could only imagine what her death was doing to her little Elena. But seeing Miguel's letter reminded her of how sweet he was and that she would see them again soon.

She worked her way through the stack of material slowly. Every piece made her smile more. Miguel packed in so much in such a small package. And there was no telling what he would pick out for the _ofrenda_.

Coco found herself so engrossed in looking over the envelope's contents that she was mildly startled when she heard approaching voices. Familiar voices that caused her to set aside the entire stack of material.

"So what exactly did _mi idiota_ leave here?" asked Mamá, the words filled with so much affection.

"They _did_ confiscate a lot of things from me over the decades." The male voice, tinged with a slight joking edge, nearly stole Coco's breath away as it summoned up distant memories of childhood. Memories far clearer and more solid than they'd been in a long time. "Who knows what they've got stored away from my past plans. Is it the mini-fridge? Or the lasso?"

"Nothing like that," said Helena.

As the door knob started to turn, Coco heard the male voice say, "Well, I doubt it's the van. That wasn't in the best condition afterwards…"

"What happened with the van?" asked Mamá.

The door opened to reveal Helena and two new skeletons, the pair chatting casually and staring at each other with clear affection. Or even love. Even without the familiar features of life, Coco would have recognized her mamá instantly. Still beautiful, strong, regal, and amazing as she remembered. And the second skeleton…

Then they caught sight of Coco on the bench as Helena smiled and slipped out, closing the door to give them some privacy in the room. Eyes widened and shock overtook their faces. And while Mamá covered her mouth with one hand, the other…

Papá.

It was Papá. Exactly like Miguel described.

He was standing there, stiff as a statue and staring at her with an overwhelmed expression. He looked so _young_. Her papá was always so grown up and mature in her memories, but he was barely physically older than Abel.

Part of her could scarcely believe it. He was really in front of her after so long. He was both too young and yet somehow incredibly old. She could see it in his eyes. Coco felt the same strange feeling of duality as she stared at her parents. She was both a mature great-grandmother and a little girl who'd missed her mamá and papá.

Then she noticed Mamá glancing at Papá worriedly. As if in desperate need to reassure herself that he hadn't disappeared. And that's when Coco truly paid attention to his expression. Not just the combination of youth and the weight of age. She could certainly see love and hope, that he wanted to see her just as Miguel had promised repeatedly. Miguel was right about how much her papá missed her. But she could also see fear and anxiety.

He looked so young and uncertain.

And Coco's vast experience at raising children over the years let her figure out exactly what was going through his head. He wasn't certain that she remembered or recognized him. He wasn't certain that she forgave him for not coming home. He wasn't certain how she would react or if she even wanted anything to do with him. He didn't know what to do or say, even though she suspected that he'd thought about this moment since he died.

Poor Papá. He was just as nervous about this reunion as she was. All the doubts and fears that she'd wondered about over the decades were reflected in his eyes at that moment.

He might be her papá, but he was so young. She couldn't just treat him like her parent, but also as someone younger than her.

Thankfully, she had experience handling the uncertainty and worry of young people.

Coco stood up slowly while he stared at her with wide eyes. He might be a skeleton, but he was clearly a bundle of nerves. He was even trembling slightly, causing Mamá to place a gentle hand on his back for support and comfort. And when Coco raised and outstretched her arms abruptly, he stiffened further. She half-expected his bones to snap like twigs from the tension.

"You know," said Coco, causing him to flinch in surprise, "Miguel told me that you promised me a hug when you saw me." As his stunned expression shifted to something more hopeful, she continued gently, "Don't make him a liar, Papá."

That seemed to do it. The worry and uncertainty holding him back vanished. As did the distance between them as Papá flung himself at her and her outstretched arms, hugging her tightly. He was still shaking, but it felt more like barely-restrained sobs. Happy, relieved sobs. And she could hear desperate and frantic apologies whispered into her shoulder. Coco found herself instinctively rubbing his back soothingly.

"It's all right," she said. "It's all right, Papá. You're here now."

A slight _creak_ of the floorboards made her look up. Mamá was there, smiling gently. Coco reached out and took her hand, but didn't loosen her grip on her papá. She'd missed her mamá over the years. But she knew that Mamá had come home every _Día de Muertos_. Mamá saw her every year even when Coco couldn't see her in return. But according to Miguel, her papá had been denied even that much. Coco wanted to hug her mamá too, but Papá needed her right now. It had been a very long time.

"I love you both," she whispered. "I love and missed you both so much."

Papá pulled back just enough to start peppering her face with kisses, causing her to laugh slightly. She remembered him doing the same thing during her childhood. His eyes normally didn't look quite as watery during the past however. Apparently skeletons could cry, though he was resisting for the moment.

"I'm so sorry that I almost forgot you, Papá. I didn't mean to."

Instantly cupping her face with both hands, he said, "No, _míja_. Don't you dare blame yourself. Not for a second. You remembered me. Far longer than anyone would have expected." He kissed the top of her head. "I missed so much. I missed your entire life. And I'm so sorry about that."

"I know. Miguel told me everything," she said.

"Everything?" asked Papá, looking a little nervous.

Chuckling slightly, Coco said, "Don't worry. I don't think anyone could have kept him completely out of trouble. He was always a handful."

"And too stubborn for his own good," said Mamá.

Glancing at her with a slightly mischievous grin, Papá asked, "And where do you think that he got it from, _mi alma_?"

As Coco tugged them towards the bench and silently urged them to sit down, she couldn't help smiling. Seeing them both again, together and happy, was like a dream come true. She'd wished for it. For more years than she could count. And now she was sitting between Mamá and Papá, holding onto their hands and enjoying their presence once more.

"What's this?" asked Papá, picking up the stack of paper from the envelope.

"A surprise from Miguel," she said. "He's been busy since you last saw him."

He blinked in surprise. Then he grinned before reading the letter on top. Coco watched him carefully, already knowing what it said.

\- _Mamá Coco_

 _I guess if you're reading this, then you're in the Land of the Dead. Otherwise I would have put in a different letter and just put the envelop on the_ ofrenda _for everyone else instead._

 _I'll miss you. I can't even imagine not having you around. We talk about everything. But I know everyone will be happy to see you. And you can visit us on_ Día de Muertos _._

 _Make sure that you tell everyone that I really liked meeting them. And that I'm sorry that I made Mamá Imelda and everyone chase me all over the Land of the Dead. I'll try to put something on the_ ofrenda _for her to make up for it._

_As for everything else in the envelope, you can decide how much to show them. But at least tell them that the music ban is gone. They deserve to know._

_I love you, Mamá Coco. We all do. And tell everyone that I wish I could give them a hug. Maybe you can give them all a hug from me._

_\- Miguel_

The small smile on his face brought similar ones to Coco and Mamá. Papá seemed so happy to hear from Miguel, even if it was just a short note to Coco. Eventually he closed his eyes and leaned back.

"He's a smart boy," said Coco. "And almost as wonderful a musician as you. He's been practicing. I think you'd be proud."

"I am. And I'm very proud of you too, _míja_."

He pressed a small kiss to her temple, an action mirrored by Mamá. And then he picked up another piece of paper from the stack. Coco tried to hide her excitement as he looked over the innocent-seeming note.

_\- Papá Héctor_

_This is for you. I'm sorry that I lost the one that you gave me. And don't worry. We have plenty of copies._

_\- Miguel_

Taking pity when she saw his confused frown, Coco said, "Turn it over."

When he followed Coco's advice, both he and Mamá gasped in surprise. Printed on the sheet of paper was a familiar image. The repaired family _foto_ with Papá's smiling face back where it belonged.

"I thought… It was gone," whispered Mamá, reaching out to brush the formerly-missing corner. Her voice sounded strained, choked by guilt and regrets. "I tore him out and threw it away."

"I saved the piece and hid it to keep it safe." Coco glanced at both of her parents. "I didn't want to lose Papá completely. And Miguel managed to make several copies. More than he probably told me that he did. There's that one for Papá, but two more so that Mamá and I can have copies of our own. And there are even more back home. Plenty for Miguel to make sure that at least one of them ends up on the _ofrenda_ this year."

Still staring at the _foto_ clutched in his hands, Papá asked quietly, "Miguel… did that? I… can go home?"

His hands were shaking slightly, causing Mamá to reach across and gently squeeze his arm. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down a little. He still looked rather overwhelmed by everything that was happening.

"I told you," said Coco gently. "He's been busy. Miguel reminded me about Papá, brought music back to our family, and made several copies of the _foto_. But he's done more than that. Ernesto's lies are being exposed. They know that he lied, that he didn't write the songs and that he used to have a songwriting partner before you 'mysteriously disappeared without a trace.' Maybe he'll find a way to prove more later. He's certainly raised plenty of doubts about Ernesto. But for now, Miguel has worked hard to make sure the world knows the truth about you, Papá. And more importantly, our family knows."

Coco quietly started showing them more of what Miguel sent. Clipped newspaper articles. A copy of a magazine with her interview printed, every word that she spoke as she talked about her family, her life with them, and especially her memories from before her Papá disappeared. Pages of Miguel's research. _Fotos_ of the family, casual ones of everyone that Miguel managed to take with camera that he borrowed and carefully labeled on the back to identify the different family members. Anything that Miguel thought that his dead relatives might like to have had been stuffed into the envelope, often with comments from him in the margins or on the back.

To be honest, all three of them ended up growing a little emotional during the process. Papá couldn't bother to hold back grateful tears, but even Mamá was blinking rapidly as the sheer scale of what the boy had done began to dawn on them. And when Coco showed the picture that Miguel took of Socorro sleeping, none of their eyes were dry.

When they finally set the stack of paper aside, Mamá coughed slightly and said, "Perhaps we should consider leaving soon. It is growing late and I'm sure the rest of the family would love to see you, Coco. Especially Julio and Victoria."

Something in her chest swelled at the idea of seeing her husband and her daughter again. Her baby girl, taken away far too soon. And her dear Julio. She missed him so much. Coco desperately wanted to be in his arms again.

"At least Rosita is already making a special dinner," said Papá. "Carlos will certainly be in for a more eventful evening than he planned."

Tilting her head slightly, Coco asked, "Carlos?"

"He's the man who is currently courting Victoria," said Mamá. "Mostly by the two of them exchanging books and discussing them, though I think I saw him trying to show her how to hold a violin properly last week."

"My little Victoria? In love?"

Coco covered her mouth with one hand, but it didn't seem to cover the smile on her face. And it certainly did nothing to hide her overjoyed tears. Her serious and practical girl never showed any interest in the men in Santa Cecilia. And Victoria seemed perfectly happy and content on her own. But if she found someone in this place to love…

"You'll like him, míja. He's a good man and he makes her happy," assured Papá.

Standing up and reaching a hand down to her daughter, Mamá asked, "Would you like to meet him? And see the rest of our family?"

Coco took her hand and Mamá pulled her gently to her feet. Coco then mirrored the gesture, taking her papá's hand and pulling him upright. She didn't let go of either of them.

"Let's go home then," said Papá.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "coda" translates literally to mean "tail," but it is essentially a closing section appended to a movement. It is usually by itself at the bottom of the sheet of music, detached from everything else.
> 
> And so we bring this story to a close. I want to thank all of you for sticking with me for so long. I appreciate all the support that you've given me from the beginning. I hope that you've enjoyed it. I certainly have.
> 
> While I do not have any plans for a sequel or anything like that, I am not finished with the "Coco" fandom just yet. I'm currently working on another story called "Harmonic Progression." You can find out more information on it in the author notes at the start of that story, but to give you the basic idea… It is a Modern Single Parents AU, with Héctor currently having to raise Miguel after a tragedy and Imelda as a recent divorcee who is raising Coco. Needless to say, building their relationship from the ground up is a different experience than rebuilding it in this story, but it should be interesting. So if you're sad to see "Like a Gentle Refrain" come to an end, maybe you'll enjoy my other story.
> 
> Once again, thanks again for all the support, comments, and so on. I have deeply appreciated having such a loyal fanbase.


End file.
